He knew she would reach
Richmond the next day.

The following morning Major McClellan, his aide, rode in from the
battlefield to report to General Bragg. Having delivered his message he
hurried to the bedside of his beloved Chief.

The doctor shook his head gravely.

"Inflammation has set in, Major--"

"My God, is there no hope?"

"None."

The singing, rollicking, daring young Cavalier felt the hand of death on
his shoulder. He was calm and cheerful. His bright words were broken by
paroxysms of suffering. He would merely close his shining blue eyes and
wait.

He directed his aide to dispose of his official papers.

He touched McClellan's hand and the Major's closed over it.

"I wish you to have one of my horses and Venable the other."

McClellan nodded.

"Which of you is the heavier?"

"Venable, sir."

"All right, give him the gray. You take the bay."

The pain choked him into silence again. At last he opened his eyes.

"You'll find in my hat a small Confederate flag which a lady in
Columbia, South Carolina, sent me with the request that I wear it on my
horse in a battle and return it to her. Send it."

Again the agony stilled the musical voice.

"My spurs," he went on, "which I have always worn in battle, I promised
to Mrs. Lilly Lee of Shepherdstown, Virginia--"

He paused.

"My sword--I leave--to--my--son."

A cannon roared outside the city. With quick eagerness he asked:

"What's that?"

"Gracey's brigade has moved out against Sheridan's rear as he retreats.
Fitz Lee is fighting them still at Meadow Bridge."

He turned his blue eyes upward and prayed:

"God grant they may win--"

He moved his head aside and said:

"I must prepare for another world."

He listened to the roar of the guns for a moment and signaled to his
aide:

"Major, Fitz Lee may need you."

McClellan pressed his hand and hurried to the front.

As he passed out the tall figure of the President of the Confederacy
entered. Jefferson Davis sat by his side and held his hand. He loved
his daring young Cavalry Commander. He had made him a Major-General at
thirty. He was dying now at thirty-one. The tragedy found the heart of
the sorrowful leader of all the South.

When the Reverend Dr. Peterkin entered he said:

"Now I want you to sing for me the old song I love best--

"'Rock of Ages cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee--'"

With failing breath he joined in the song.

A paroxysm of pain gripped him