he is really mad."

The other shook his head. "He is not mad. Don't get that idea, Stafford.
It _is_ hard on the troops, poor fellows! How the snow falls! We had
better turn out and let the guns pass."

They moved into the untrodden snow lying in the fence corners and
watched the guns, the horses, and men strain past with a sombre noise.
Officers and men knew Richard Cleave, and several hailed him. "Where in
hell are we going, Cleave? Old Jack likes you! Tell him, won't you, that
it's damned hard on the horses, and we haven't much to eat ourselves?
Tell him even the guns are complaining! Tell him--Yes, sir! Get up
there, Selim! Pull, Flora, pull!--Whoa!--Damnation! Come lay a hand to
this gun, boys! Where's Hetterich! Hetterich, this damned wheel's off
again!"

The delay threatening to be considerable, the two men rode on, picking
their way, keeping to the low bank, or using the verge of the crowded
road. At last they left the artillery, and found themselves again upon a
lonely way. "I love that arm," said Cleave. "There isn't a gun there
that isn't alive to me." He turned in his saddle and looked back at the
last caisson vanishing over the hill.

"Shall you remain with the staff?"

"No. Only through this campaign. I prefer the line."

The snow fell so fast that the trampled and discoloured road was again
whitening beneath it. Half a mile ahead was visible the Stonewall
Brigade, coming very slowly, beaten by the wind, blinded by the snow, a
spectral grey serpent upon the winding road.

Stafford spoke abruptly. "I am in your debt for the arrangements I found
made for me in Winchester. I have had no opportunity to thank you. You
were extremely good so to trouble yourself--"

"It was no trouble. As I told you once before, I am anxious to serve
you."

They met the brigade, Garnett riding at the head. "Good-day, Richard
Cleave," he said. "We are all bound for Siberia, I think!" Company by
company the regiments staggered by, in the whirling snow, the colours
gripped by stiffening hands. There were blood stains on the frozen
ground. Oh, the shoes, the shoes that a non-manufacturing country with
closed ports had to make in haste and send its soldiers! Oh, the
muskets, heavy, dull, ungleaming, weighting the fiercely aching
shoulders! Oh, the snow, mounded on cap, on cartridge box, on rolled
blanket and haversack. Oh, the northwest wind like a lash, the pinched
stomach, the dry lips, the wavering sight, the weariness