tablecloth hung almost to the floor. At the head sat Mrs. Dean, with a great
tureen of calf's head soup in front of her. Before the General was the saddle
of venison that was to follow, drenched in a bottle of ancient Madeira, and
flanked by flakes of red-currant jelly. Before the Major rested broiled wild
ducks, on which he could show his carving skill--on game as well as men. A
great turkey supplanted the venison, and last to come, and before Richard
Hunt, Lieutenant of the Rifles, was a Kentucky ham. That ham! Mellow, aged,
boiled in champagne, baked brown, spiced deeply, rosy pink within, and of a
flavor and fragrance to shatter the fast of a Pope; and without, a brown-edged
white layer, so firm that the lieutenant's deft carving knife, passing
through, gave no hint to the eye that it was delicious fat. There had been
merry jest and laughter and banter and gallant compliment before, but it was
Richard Hunt's turn now, and story after story he told, as the rose-flakes
dropped under his knife in such thin slices that their edges coiled. It was
full half an hour before the carver and story-teller were done. After that ham
the tablecloth was lifted, and the dessert spread on another lying beneath;
then that, too, was raised, and the nuts and wines were placed on a third--red
damask this time.

Then came the toasts: to the gracious hostess from Major Buford; to Miss Lucy
from General Dean; from valiant Richard Hunt to blushing Margaret, and then
the ladies were gone, and the talk was politics--the election of Lincoln,
slavery, disunion.

"If Lincoln is elected, no power but God's can avert war," said Richard Hunt,
gravely.

Dan's eyes flashed. "Will you take me?"

The lieutenant lifted his glass. "Gladly, my boy."