“In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
  With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
  As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
  While God is marching on.”

The effect of this; the thousand voices which sang; the marching of twice one thousand feet; the majesty of the words; the deserted street; the clear moonlight streaming over the men, reflected from their gleaming bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uniforms, illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed to wear—­and probably did wear—­a look more solemn and earnest than that of common life and feeling,—­the combined effect of it all was something indescribably impressive:—­inspiring, yet solemn.

They stood watching and listening till the pageant had vanished, and then turned back into their room, Francesca taking up the refrain and singing the line,

  “As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
  While God is marching on.”

Surrey’s face brightened at the rapt expression of hers.  “Sing it again, dearie!” he said.  She sang it again.  “Do you mean it?” he asked then.  “Can you sing it, and mean it with all your heart, for me?”

She looked at him with an expression of anxiety and pain.  “What are you asking, Willie?”

He sat down; taking her upon his knee, and with the old fond gesture, holding her head to his heart,—­“I should have told you before, dearie, but I did not wish to throw any shadow on the happy days we have been spending together; they were few and brief enough without marring them; and I was certain of the effect it would have upon you, by your incessant anxiety for Robert.”

She drew a long, gasping sigh, and started away from his hold:  “O Willie, you are not going to—­”

His arm drew her back to her resting-place.  “I do not return to my command, darling.  I am to raise a black brigade.”

“Freedmen?”

“Yes, dearie.”

“O Willie,—­and that act just passed!”

“It is true; yet, after all, it is but one risk more.”

“One?  O Willie, it is a thousand.  You had that many chances of escape where you were; you might be wounded and captured a score of times, and come home safe at last; but this!”

“I know.”

“To go into every battle with the sentence of death hanging over you; to know that if you are anywhere captured, anyhow made prisoner, you are condemned to die,—­O Willie, I can’t bear it; I can’t bear it!  I shall die, or go mad, to carry such a thought all the time.”

For answer he only held her close, with his face resting upon her hair, and in the stillness they could hear each other’s heart beat.

“It is God’s service,” he said, at last.

“I know.”

“It will end slavery and the war more effectually than aught else.”

“I know.”

“It will make these freedmen, wherever they fight, free men.  It will give them and their people a sense of dignity and power that might otherwise take generations to secure.”