eagle-eyed and prompt to join issue, gains a brief repose before
the gray of morning looses the fires of hell. McPherson, young and
brilliant, whose splendid star is in its zenith, firmly holds his
exposed lines along the railroad between two valleys. In his left
and rear, the forest throws out dark shades to cover friend and
foe. Between the waiting armies, petty murder stays its hands. The
stars sweep to the west, bringing the last morning to thousands.
They are now dreaming, perhaps, of the homes they will never see.
A thrill of nervous tension keeps a hundred thousand men in vague,
dumb expectancy. The coming shock will be terrible. No one can tell
the issue.

As the worn Confederate sentinel drags up and down before the tent
of Colonel Valois, he can see the thoughtful veteran sitting, his
tired head resting on a wasted hand.

Spirit and high soul alone animate now the Louisiana colonel. Hope
has fled. Over his devoted head the sentinel stars swing, with
neither haste nor rest, toward the occident. They will shine on
Lagunitas, smiling, fringed with its primeval pines.

In her sleep, perhaps his little girl calls for him in vain. He is
doomed not to hear that childish voice again.

A bundle of letters, carelessly tossed down at head-quarters,
have been carried in his bosom during the day's scattering fight.
They are all old in their dates, and travel-worn in following the
shifting positions of his skeleton regiment. They bring him, at
last, nearly a year's news.