stars of the Southern Cross are high in hope's bright field. Though
Richmond is saved for the time, it is at a fearful cost. Malvern
Hill shakes to its base under the flaming cannon, ploughing the
ranks of the dauntless Confederates, as the Army of the Potomac
hurls back the confident legions of Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.
The Army of the Potomac is decimated. The bloody attrition of the
field begins to wear off these splendid lines which the South can
never replace. Losses like those of Pryor's Brigade, nine hundred
out of fifteen hundred in a single campaign, would appall any but
the grim Virginian soldiers. They are veterans now. They learn the
art of war in fields like Seven Pines and Fair Oaks. Even Pryor,
as chivalric in action as truculent in debate, now admits that the
Yankees will fight. Fredericksburg's butchery is a victory of note.
All the year the noise of battle rolls, while the Eastern war is
undecided, for the second Manassas and awful Antietam balance each
other. Maxime Valois feels the issue is lost. When the shock of
battle has been tried at Corinth, where lion-like Rosecrans conquers,
when the glow of the onset fades away, his heart sinks. He knows
that the iron-jointed men of the West are the peers of any race in
the field.

Ay! In the West it is fighting from the first. Donelson, Shiloh,
and Corinth lead up to the awful death shambles of Stone River,
Vicksburg, and Chickamauga. These are scenes to shake the nerve of
the very bravest.

Heading his troops on the march, watching the thousand baleful
fires of the enemy at night, when friend and foe go down in the
thundering crash of battle, Valois, amazed, asks himself, "Are
these sturdy foes the Northern mudsills?"