fatal conspiracy. A sacrificed generation, ruined homes, and the
grim ploughshare of war rives the fairest fields of the Land of
the Cypress.

Fearless and fate-defying, under ringing guns, crashing volley, and
sweeping charge, the Southern veterans only close up the devoted
gray ranks. They are thinning with every conflict, where Lee and
Johnston build the slim gray wall against the resistless blue sea
sweeping down.

There is no pity in the pale moon. The cold, steady stars shine down
on the upturned faces of the South's best and bravest. No craven
blenching when the tattered Stars and Bars bear up in battle blast.
And yet the starry flag crowns mountain and rock. It sweeps through
blood-stained gorges and past battle-scarred defile. Onward,
ever southward. The two giant swordsmen reel in this duel of
desperation. Sherman and Johnston may not be withheld. The hour of
fate is beginning to knell the doom of the cause. Southern mothers
and wives have given up their unreturning brave as a costly sacrifice
on the altar of Baal. Valois, once more in command, a colonel now,
riding pale and desperate, before his men, sees their upturned
glances. The dauntless ranks, filing by, touch his heroic heart.
He fears, when Atlanta's refuge receives the beaten host, that
the end is nigh.

Bereft of news from his home, foreseeing the final collapse in
Virginia, assured that the sea is lost to the South, the colonel's
mood is daily sadder. His hungry eyes are wolfish in their steady
glare. Only a soldier now. His flag is his altar of daily sacrifice.