letter to the General who has promised to commit it to the runner.

“A regiment is trying its muskets at the lake. I hear the firing.

“I have a tallow dip and wax and sand, ready to close my letter instantly. No one comes.”

“Lana comes, very tired and pale. Her eyes frighten me, they seem so tragic. I learn that the army marches on the 9th. Yet, you went earlier, and I do not think my eyes resembled hers.”

“Soldiers passing, drums beating. A Pennsylvania regiment. Lana lies on my bed, her face to the wall, scarce breathing at all, as far as I can see. Conch-horns blowing — the strange and melancholy music of your regiment. It seems to fill my heart with dread unutterable.”