d into the
shadow-world. The very ground that it had trod was sacred; and one who
fingered the dusty volumes which held the record of its deeds would
feel a strange awe come upon him, and thrill with a sudden fear of
life--that was so fleeting and so little to be understood. There were
boyhood memories in Montague's mind, of hours of consecration, when the
vision had descended upon him, and he had sat with face hidden in his
hands.

It was for the Republic that these men had suffered; for him and his
children--that a government of the people, by the people, for the
people, might not perish from the earth. And with the organ-music of
the Gettysburg Address echoing within him, the boy laid his soul upon
the altar of his country. They had done so much for him--and now, was
there anything that he could do? A dozen years had passed since then,
and still he knew that deep within him--deeper than all other purposes,
than all thoughts of wealth and fame and power--was the purpose that
the men who had died for the Republic should find him worthy of their
trust.

The singing had stopped, and Judge Ellis was standing before him. The
Judge was about to go, and in his caressing voice he said that he would
hope to see Montague again. Then, seeing that General Prentice was also
standing up, Montague threw off the spell that had gripped him, and
shook hands with the little drummer, and with Selden and Anderson and
all the others of his dream people. A few minutes later he found
himself outside the hotel, drinking deep draughts of the cold November
air.

Major Thorne had come out with them; and learning that the General's
route lay uptown, he offered to walk with Montague to his hotel.

They set out, and then Montague told the Major about the figure in the
grape-vine, and the Major laughed and told how it had felt. There had
been more adventures, it seemed; while he was hunting a horse he had
come upon two mules loaded with ammunition and entangled with their
harness about a tree; he had rushed up to seize them--when a solid shot
had struck the tree and exploded the ammunition and blown the mules to
fragments. And then there was the story of the charge late in the
night, which had recovered the lost ground, and kept Stonewall Jackson
busy up to the very hour of his tragic death. And there was the story
of Andersonville, and the escape from prison. Montague could have
walked the streets all night, exchanging these war-time reminisce