lie down and sleep upon the ground in rain-storms and winter snows, who were ready to leap at a word and seize their muskets and rush into the cannon’s mouth.  They had learned to stare into the face of death, to meet its fiery eyes; to march and eat and sleep, to laugh and play and sing, in its presence—­to carry their life in their hands, and toss it about as a juggler tosses a ball.  And this for Freedom:  for the star-crowned goddess with the flaming eyes, who trod upon the mountain-tops and called to them in the shock and fury of the battle; whose trailing robes they followed through the dust and cannon-smoke; for a glimpse of whose shining face they had kept the long night vigils and charged upon the guns in the morning; for a touch of whose shimmering robe they had wasted in prison pens, where famine and loathsome pestilence and raving madness stalked about in the broad daylight.

And now this army of deliverance, with its waving banners and its prancing horses and its rumbling cannon, had marched into the shadow-world.  The very ground that it had trod was sacred; and one who fingered the dusty volumes which held the record of its deeds would feel a strange awe come upon him, and thrill with a sudden fear of life—­that was so fleeting and so little to be understood.  There were boyhood memories in Montague’s mind, of hours of consecration, when the vision had descended upon him, and he had sat with face hidden in his hands.

It was for the Republic that these men had suffered; for him and his children—­that a government of the people, by the people, for the people, might not perish from the earth.  And with the organ-music of the Gettysburg Address echoing within him, the boy laid his soul upon the altar of his country.  They had done so much for him—­and now, was there anything that he could do?  A dozen years had passed since then, and still he knew that deep within him—­deeper than all other purposes, than all thoughts of wealth and fame and power—­was the purpose that the men who had died for the Republic should find him worthy of their trust.

The singing had stopped, and Judge Ellis was standing before him.  The Judge was about to go, and in his caressing voice he said that he would hope to see Montague again.  Then, seeing that General Prentice was also standing up, Montague threw off the spell that had gripped him, and shook hands with the little drummer, and with Selden and Anderson and all the others of his dream people.  A few minutes later he found himself outside the hotel, drinking deep draughts of the cold November air.

Major Thorne had come out with them; and learning that the General’s route lay uptown, he offered to walk with Montague to his hotel.