"God grant that you two may never meet."

"Father!" It was a cry of horror from both the lads.

The horses were waiting at the stiles. The General took Dan in his arms
and the boy broke away and ran down the steps, weeping.

"Father," said Harry, with trembling lips, "I hope you won't be too
hard on me. Perhaps the day will come when you won't be so ashamed of
me. I hope you and mother will forgive me. I can't do otherwise than I
must. Will you shake hands with me, father?"

"Yes, my son. God be with you both."

And then, as he watched the boys ride side by side to the gate, he
added:

"I could kill my own brother with my own hand for this."

He saw them stop a moment at the gate; saw them clasp hands and turn
opposite ways--one with his face set for Tennessee, the other making
for the Ohio. Dan waved his cap in a last sad good-by. Harry rode over
the hill without turning his head. The General stood rigid, with his
hands clasped behind his back, staring across the gray fields between
them. Through the winds, came the low sound of sobbing.

CHAPTER 21.

MELISSA

Shortly after dusk, that night, two or three wagons moved quietly out
of Lexington, under a little guard with guns loaded and bayonets fixed.
Back at the old Armory--the home of the "Rifles"--a dozen youngsters
drilled vigorously with faces in a broad grin, as they swept under the
motto of the company--"Our laws the commands of our Captain." They were
following out those commands most literally. Never did Lieutenant Hunt
give his orders more sonorously--he could be heard for blocks away.
Never did young soldiers stamp out maneuvers more lustily--they made
more noise than a regiment. Not a man carried a gun, though ringing
orders to "Carry arms" and "Present arms" made the windows rattle. It
was John Morgan's first ruse. While that mock-drill was going on, and
listening Unionists outside were laughing to think how those Rifles
were going to be fooled next day, the guns of the company were moving
in those wagons toward Dixie--toward mocking-bird-haunted Bowling
Green, where the underfed, unclothed, unarmed body of Albert Sydney
Johnston's army lay, with one half-feathered wing stretching into the
Cumberland hills and the frayed edge of the other touching the Ohio.

Next morning, the Home Guards came gayly around to the Armory to seize
those guns, and the wily youngsters left temporarily behind (they, too,
fled for Dixie, that night) gibed them