“I will not go, mother,” he said.  “If at length every man is needed, that will be different.”

“It is for you to decide, my son,” she answered.  “There are many ways in which you can serve your country here.  But remember that you may have to face hard things.”

“I have had to do that before, mother,” he replied calmly.  “I cannot leave you dependent upon charity.”

She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his ambition at her feet.

It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came.  All through the Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked on.  No surrender yet.  Through a wide land was that numbness which precedes action.  Force of habit sent men to their places of business, to sit idle.  A prayerful Sunday intervened.  Sumter had fallen.  South Carolina had shot to bits the flag she had once revered.

On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers.  Missouri was asked for her quota.  The outraged reply of her governor went back, —­never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states.  Little did Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of all the Union in the number of men she was to give.  To her was credited in the end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.

The noise of preparation was in the city—­in the land.  On the Monday morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his face.  The light of the zealot was on Richter’s own.

“We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders.  It is the Leader’s word.  Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down rebellion.”  Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head.  What would he think,—­this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native land for his convictions?  Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to die for them?  How was he to confess to Richter, of all men?

“Carl,” he said at length, “I—­I cannot go.”

“You—­you cannot go?  You who have done so much already!  And why?”

Stephen did not answer.  But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his hands impulsively on Stephen’s shoulders.

“Ach, I see,” he said.  “Stephen, I have saved some money.  It shall be for your mother while you are away.”

At first Stephen was too surprised for speech.  Then, in spite of his feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his character.  Then he could merely shake his head.

“Is it not for the Union?” implored Richter, “I would give a fortune, if I had it.  Ah, my friend, that would please me so.  And I do not need the money now.  I ’have—­nobody.”

Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across the river on the wind.  Stephen turned to the open window, tears of intense agony in his eyes.  In that instant he saw the regiment marching, and the flag flying at its head.