always to end in defeat.  At dusk, he heard the word of the outer world from the lips of an old mountaineer at the foot of the Cumberland—­the first heard, except from his mother, for full thirty days—­and the word was—­war.  He smiled incredulously at the old fellow, but, unconsciously, he pushed his horse on a little faster up the mountain, pushed him, as the moon rose, aslant the breast of a mighty hill and, winding at a gallop about the last downward turn of the snaky path, went at full speed alongside the big gray wall that, above him, rose sheer a thousand feet and, straight ahead, broke wildly and crumbled into historic Cumberland Gap.  From a little knoll he saw the railway station in the shadow of the wall, and, on one prong of a switch, his train panting lazily; and, with a laugh, he pulled his horse down to a walk and then to a dead stop—­his face grave again and uplifted.  Where his eyes rested and plain in the moonlight was a rocky path winding upward—­the old Wilderness Trail that the Kentucky pioneers had worn with moccasined feet more than a century before.  He had seen it a hundred times before—­moved always; but it thrilled him now, and he rode on slowly, looking up at it.  His forefathers had helped blaze that trail.  On one side of that wall they had fought savage and Briton for a home and a country, and on the other side they had done it again.  Later, they had fought the Mexican and in time they came to fight each other, for and against the nation they had done so much to upbuild.  It was even true that a Crittenden had already given his life for the very cause that was so tardily thrilling the nation now.  Thus it had always been with his people straight down the bloody national highway from Yorktown to Appomattox, and if there was war, he thought proudly, as he swung from his horse—­thus it would now be with him.

If there was war?  He had lain awake in his berth a long while, looking out the window and wondering.  He had been born among the bleeding memories of one war.  The tales of his nursery had been tales of war.  And though there had been talk of war through the land for weeks before he left home, it had no more seemed possible that in his lifetime could come another war than that he should live to see any other myth of his childhood come true.

Now, it was daybreak on the edge of the Bluegrass, and, like a dark truth from a white light, three tall letters leaped from the paper in his hand—­War!  There was a token in the very dawn, a sword-like flame flashing upward.  The man in the White House had called for willing hands by the thousands to wield it, and the Kentucky Legion, that had fought in Mexico, had split in twain to fight for the North and for the South, and had come shoulder to shoulder when the breach was closed—­the Legion of his own loved State—­was the first body of volunteers to reach for the hilt.  Regulars were gathering from the four winds to an old Southern battlefield.  Already the Legion was on its way to camp in the Bluegrass.  His town was making ready to welcome it, and among the names of the speakers who were to voice the welcome, he saw his own—­Clay Crittenden.