des, sent a
staff officer forward with representations. The latter spurred his
horse, but rapid travelling was impossible upon that ice-sheathed road.
It was long before he overtook the rear of the Stonewall Brigade.
Buffeted by the wind, the grey uniforms pale under a glaze of sleet, the
red of the colours the only gleam of cheer, the line crawled over a long
hill, icy, unwooded, swept by the shrieking wind. Stafford in passing
exchanged greetings with several of the mounted officers. These were in
as bad case as their men, nigh frozen themselves, distressed for the
horses beneath them, and for the staggering ranks, striving for anger
with the many stragglers and finding only compunction, in blank
ignorance as to where they were going and for what, knowing only that
whereas they had made seventeen miles the day before, they were not
likely to make seven to-day. He passed the infantry and came up with the
artillery. The steep road was ice, the horses were smooth shod. The poor
brutes slipped and fell, cutting themselves cruelly. The men were down
in the road, lifting the horses, dragging with them at gun and caisson.
The crest of the hill reached, the carriages must be held back, kept
from sliding sideways in the descent. Going down was worse than coming
up. The horses slipped and fell; the weight of gun and caisson came upon
them; together they rolled to the foot, where they must be helped up and
urged to the next ascent. Oaths went here and there upon the wind, hurt
whinnies, words of encouragement, cracking of whips, straining and
groaning of gun carriages.

Stafford left the artillery behind, slowly climbed another hill, and
more slowly yet picked his way down the glassy slope. Before him lay a
great stretch of meadow, white with sleet, and beyond it he saw the
advance guard disappearing in a fold of the wrinkled hills. As he rode
he tried to turn his thoughts from the physical cold and wretchedness to
some more genial chamber of the brain. He had imaginative power, ability
to build for himself out of the void. It had served him well in the
past--but not so well the last year or two. He tried now to turn the
ring and pass from the bitter day and road into some haunt of warmth and
peace. Albemarle and summer--Greenwood and a quiet garden. That did not
answer! Harassment, longing, sore desire, check and bitterness--unhappiness
there as here! He tried other resting places that once had
answered, poets' meadows of aspho