best of care." He took the old woman
in his arms. "You two have been just as good as a father and mother to
me. Thank you for it. I'll never forget. Good-bye."

Toward five o'clock the wagon rolled into the village whence certain of
the Botetourt companies were to march away. It was built beside the
river--two long, parallel streets, one upon the water level, the other
much higher, with intersecting lanes. There were brick and frame houses,
modest enough; there were three small, white-spired churches, many
locust and ailanthus trees, a covered bridge thrown across the river to
a village upon the farther side and, surrounding all, a noble frame of
mountains. There was, in those days, no railroad.

Cleave's hundred men, having the town at large for their friend, stood
in no lack of quarters. Some had volunteered from this place or its
neighbourhood, others had kinsmen and associates, not one was so forlorn
as to be without a host. The village was in a high fever of hospitality;
had the companies marching from Botetourt been so many brigades, it
would still have done its utmost. From the Potomac to the Dan, from the
Eastern Shore to the Alleghenies the flame of patriotism burned high and
clear. There were skulkers, there were braggarts, there were knaves and
fools in Virginia as elsewhere, but by comparison they were not many,
and theirs was not the voice that was heard to-day. The mass of the
people were very honest, stubbornly convinced, showing to the end a most
heroic and devoted ardour. This village was not behindhand. All her
young men were going; she had her company, too. She welcomed Cleave's
men, gathered for the momentarily expected order to the front, and
lavished upon them, as on two other companies within her bounds, every
hospitable care.

The wagon driver deposited Allan Gold and his trunk before the porch of
the old, red brick hotel, shook hands with a mighty grip, and rattled on
toward the lower end of town. The host came out to greet the young man,
two negro boys laid hold of his trunk, a passing volunteer in butternut,
with a musket as long as Natty Bumpo's, hailed him, and a cluster of
elderly men sitting with tilted chairs in the shade of a locust tree
rose and gave him welcome. "It's Allan Gold from Thunder Run, isn't it?
Good-day, sir, good-day! Can't have too many from Thunder Run; good
giant stuff! Have you somewhere to stay to-night? If not, any one of us
will be happy to look after you.--Mr. H