as whispered down the lines.

Then the old rider spoke for the first time, and said simply:

"Men, I have come to lead you in."

A mighty shout came up. "It's General Lee!--he has come to lead us
in," they shouted.

"No, no, men,"--said the old warrior quickly. "I am not General Lee.
But I have led Southern troops before. I was at New Orleans. I was--"

"It's Ole Hick'ry--by the eternal!--Ole Hick'ry--and he's come back
to life to lead us!" shouted a big fellow as he threw his hat in the
air.

"Ole Hickory! Ole Hickory!" echoed and re-echoed down the lines, till
it reached the ears of the dying soldiers in the ditch itself, and
many a poor, brave fellow, as his heart strings snapped and the
broken chord gurgled out into the dying moan, saw amid the blaze and
light of the new life, the apparition turn into a reality and a smile
of exquisite satisfaction was forever frozen on his face in the mould
of death, as he whispered with his last breath:

"It's Old Hickory--my General--I have fought a good fight--I come!"

Then the old warrior smiled--a smile of simple beauty and grandeur,
of keen satisfaction that such an honor should have been paid him,
and he tried to speak to correct them. But they shouted the more, and
drowned out his voice and would not have it otherwise. Despairing, he
rode to the front and drew his long, heavy, old, revolutionary sword.
It flashed in the air. It came to "attention"--and then a dead
silence followed.

"Men," he said, "this is the sword of John Sevier, the rebel that led
us up the sides of King's Mountain when every tyrant gun that belched
in our face called us--rebels!"

"Old Hick'ry! Old Hick'ry, forever!" came back from the lines.

Again the old sword came to attention, and again a deep hush
followed.

"Men," he said, drawing a huge rifled barreled pistol--"this is the
pistol of Andrew Jackson, the rebel that whipped the British at New
Orleans when every gun that thundered in his face, meant death to
liberty!"

"Old Hickory! Old Hickory!!" came back in a frenzy of excitement.

Again the old sword came to attention--again, the silence. Then the
old man fairly stood erect in his stirrups--he grew six inches
taller and straighter and the black horse reared and rose as if to
give emphasis to his rider's assertion:

"Men," he shouted, "rebel is the name that tyranny gives to
patriotism! And now, let us fight, as our fore-fathers fought, for
our state, our homes and our fires