wife is now only a placid memory. Her gentle nature never roused
the inner fires of his passionate soul. Alien to the Pacific
Coast, a soldier of fortune, the ties into which he drifted were
the weavings of Fate. His warrior soul pours out its devotion in
the military oath to guard to the last the now ragged silken folds
of his regimental banner, the dear banner of Louisiana. The eyes
of the graceful Creole beauties who gave it are now wet with bitter
tears. Beloved men are dying vainly, day by day, under its sacred
folds. Even Beauty's spell is vain.

The wild oats are golden once more on the hills of Lagunitas; the
early summer breezes waft stray leaf and blossom over the glittering
lake in the Mariposa Mountains. Heading the tireless riflemen
of his command, Valois throws himself in desperation on the Union
lines at Chickamauga. Crashing volley, ringing "Napoleons," the
wild yell of the onset, the answering cheers of defiance, sound
faintly distant as Maxime Valois drops from his charger. He lies
seriously wounded in the wild rush of Bragg's devoted battalions.
He has got his "billet."

For months, tossing on a bed of pain, the Louisianian is a sacred
charge to his admiring comrades. Far in the hills of Georgia, the
wasted soldier chafes under his absence from the field. The beloved
silken heralds of victory are fluttering far away on the heights of
Missionary Ridge. His faded eye brightens, his hollow cheek flushes
when the glad tidings reach him of the environment of Rosecrans.
His own regiment is at the front. He prays that he may lead it,
when it heads the Confederate advance into Ohio. For now, after
Chickamauga's terrific shock, the tide of victory bears northward
the flag of his adoration. Months have passed since he received any