Only an old prating priest, a simple woman, and an infant, between
him and these thousands of rich acres, should Valois be killed.

Philip Hardin becomes convinced of final defeat, as 1863 draws to
a close. The days of Gettysburg and Vicksburg ring the knell of
the Confederacy. Even the prestige of Chancellorsville, with its
sacred victory sealed with Stonewall Jackson's precious blood,
was lost in the vital blow delivered when the columns of Longstreet
and Pickett failed to carry the heights of Gettysburg.

The troops slain on that field could never be replaced. Boyhood
and old age, alone, were left to fill the vacant ranks. Settling
slowly down, the gloomy days of collapse approach.

While Lee skilfully faced the Army of the Potomac, and the Confederacy
was drained of men to hold the "sacred soil," the Western fields
were lit up by the fierce light of Grant and Sherman's genius. Like
destroying angels, seconded by Rosecrans, Thomas, and McPherson,
these great captains drew out of the smoke of battle, gigantic
figures towering above all their rivals.

Maxime Valois bitterly deplored the uselessness of the war in the
trans-Mississippi section of the Confederacy. It is too late for
any Western divisions to affect the downward course of the sacred
cause for which countless thousands have already died.

The Potomac armies of the Union, torn with the dissensions of
warring generals, wait for the days of the inscrutable Grant and
fiery Philip Sheridan. In the West, the eagle eye of Rosecrans