Orleans.

Old and tottering to his tomb is that veteran jurist. The
possible heir would be Armand, the boy student, cut off in Paris.
No home-comings now. The ports are all closed.

When all is prepared, Colonel Valois says tenderly: "Peyton, I
have some money left at Havana. I will endorse these drafts to you,
and give you a letter to the banker there. You can keep them for
me. I want you to ride into Atlanta and see these papers deposited.
Let there be made a special commission for their delivery to our
agent at Havana. Let them leave Atlanta at once. I want no failure
if Sherman storms the city. I will not be alive to see it."

Awed by the prophetic coolness of Valois' speech, Peyton sends for
his horse. He rides down to the town, where hundreds on hundreds
of wounded sufferers groan on every side. Thousands desperately
wait in the agony of suspense for the morrow's awful verdict. He
gallops past knots of reckless merry-makers who jest on the edge
of their graves. Henry Peyton bears the precious packet and delivers
it to an officer of the highest rank. He is on the eve of instant
departure for the sea-board. Cars and engines are crowded with the
frightened people, flying from the awful shock of Hood's impending
assault.

This solemn duty performed, the Major rejoins Colonel Valois at a
gallop. Lying on his couch, Valois' face brightens as he springs
from his rest. "It is well. I thank you," he simply says. He is
calm, even cheerful. The bonhomie of his race is manifest. "Major
Peyton," he says, pleasantly, "I would like you to remember the