e young musician was playing, probably some old French air or
a great lyric outburst of the fiery Verdi, whose music had already spread
through America.

"A great artist," whispered Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire in his ear.
"He studied at the schools in New Orleans and then for two years in
Paris. But he came back to fight. Nothing could keep Julien from the
army, but he brought his violin with him. We Latins, or at least we
who are called Latins, steep our souls in music. It's not merely
intellectual with us. It's passion, fire, abandonment, triumph and all
the great primitive emotions of the human race."

Harry's feelings differed somewhat from those of Lieutenant-Colonel
St. Hilaire--in character but not in power--and as young de Langeais
played on he began to think what a loss a stray bullet could make.
Why should a great artist be allowed to come on the battle line? There
were hundreds of thousands of common men. One could replace another,
but nobody could replace the genius, a genius in which the whole world
shared. It was not possible for either drill or training to do it,
and yet a little bullet might take away his life as easily as it would
that of a plowboy. They were all alike to the bullets and the shells.

De Langeais finished, and a great shout of applause arose. The cheering
became so insistent that he was compelled to play again.

"His family is well-to-do," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire just
before he began playing once more, "and they'll see that he goes back to
Paris for study as soon as the war is over. If they didn't I would."

It did not seem to occur to Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire that young
de Langeais could be killed, and Harry began to share his confidence.
De Langeais now played the simple songs of the old South, and there was
many a tear in the eyes of war-hardened youth. The sun was setting in
a sea of fire, and the pine forests turned red in its blaze. In the
distance the waters of the Rapidan were crimson, too, and a light wind
out of the west sighed among the pines, forming a subdued chorus to the
violin.

De Langeais began to play a famous old song of home, and Harry's mind
traveled back on its lingering note to his father's beautiful house and
grounds, close by Pendleton, and all the fine country about it, in which
he and Dick Mason and the boys of their age had roamed. He remembered
all the brooks and ponds and the groves that produced the best hickory
nuts