Yes, the crowd is there, seething with conflicting passions. Men with
brows bent and fists clenched, yelling excitedly. Others pushing, and
eager to see,--there in curiosity only. And, alas, women and children by
the score, as if what they looked upon were not war, but a parade, a
spectacle. As the gray uniforms file out of the gate, the crowd has
become a mob, now flowing back into the fields on each side of the road,
now pressing forward vindictively until stopped by the sergeants and
corporals. Listen to them calling to sons, and brothers, and husbands in
gray! See, there is a woman who spits in a soldier's face!

Throughout it all, the officers sit their horses, unmoved. A man on the
bank above draws a pistol and aims at a captain. A German private steps
from the ranks, forgetful of discipline, and points at the man, who is
cursing the captain's name. The captain, imperturbable, orders his man
back to his place. And the man does not shoot--yet.

Now are the prisoners of that regiment all in place between the two files
of it. A band (one of those which played lightsome music on the birthday
of the camp) is marched around to the head of the column. The regiment
with its freight moves on to make place for a battalion of regulars, amid
imprecations and cries of "Hurrah for Jeff Davis!" and "Damn the Dutch!
Kill the Hessians!"

Stephen Brice stood among the people in Lindell's Grove, looking up at
the troops on the road, which was on an embankment. Through the rows of
faces he had searched in vain for one. His motive he did not attempt to
fathom--in truth, he was not conscious at the time of any motive. He
heard the name shouted at the gate.

"Here they are,--the dragoons! Three cheers for Colfax! Down with the