That afternoon and night we were on picket, having been thrown forward a mile from the bivouac of the division.  There was now but one opinion among the men, who were almost hilarious,—­Lee’s army was flanking Meade, that is, Ewell and Hill, for Longstreet had been sent to Georgia with his corps.  But why were we making such short marches?  Several reasons were advanced for this.  Wilson said we were getting as near as possible first, “taking a running start,” to use his words.  Youmans thought that General Lee wanted to save the army from straggling before the day of battle.  Mackay thought Ewell would make the long march, and that we must wait on his movement.  Wilson said that could not be so, as Ewell had marched to our right.

Nobody had any other belief than that we were getting around Meade.  We were now almost at the very spot, within a few miles of it, from which Jackson’s rapid march to Pope’s rear had begun, while Meade now occupied Pope’s former position.  Could General Lee hope that Meade, with Pope’s example staring him in the face, would allow himself to be entrapped?  This question was discussed by the men.

Mackay thought that the movement of our army through the Valley last June, when we went into Pennsylvania, would be the first thing Meade would recall.

Wilson answered this by saying that the season was too far advanced for Meade to fear so great a movement; still, Wilson thought that General Meade would hardly suppose that Lee would try to effect the very thing he had once succeeded in; besides, he said, every general must provide against every contingency, but it is clearly impossible to do so, and in neglecting some things for others, he runs his risks and takes his chances.  Meade would not retreat until he knew that the flank movement was in progress; to retreat in fear of having to retreat would be nonsense; and if Meade waited only a few hours too long, it would be all up with him; and that if he started too early, Lee might change his tactics and follow the retreat.

On the picket-line my search was kept up.  We were near the North Fork of the Rappahannock.  No enemy was on our side of the river, at least in our front.  Before nightfall we had no vedettes, for we overlooked the river, and every man was a vedette, as it were.  I lay in the line, trying to take the first step leading to the reconstruction of my life.

“Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me.”

The words clung to me obstinately.  Every other name had been abandoned, I asked not why; involuntarily all words with weaker power to hold me had been dropped.  Yet Ki-me, strong as it was, was imperfect.  It did not seem wrong, but deficient rather; something was needed to complete it—­what was that something?

Evening was drawing on.  Again I thought of Khayyam, and I wondered why.  I vexed my brain to know why.  Was it because Khayyam was a poet?  No; that could be no reason.  Was it because he was a Persian?  I could see no connection there.  Was it because of the peculiar spelling of the name?  It might be.  What was the peculiarity?  One of form, not sound.  I must think again of the written or printed name, not the sound only of the word.