way. And ever my phantom pilots me — forward or back, aside or around — it is all one to him and to me, for at the end of every trail I take, nearer and nearer draw I to mine end.”

I had heard of premonitions before a battle; had known officers and soldiers to utter them — brave men, too, yet obsessed by the conviction of their approaching death. Sometimes they die; sometimes escape, and the premonition ends forever. But until the moment of peril is passed, or they fall as they had foretold, no argument will move them, no assurance cheer them. But our corps had been in many battles during the last three years, and I had never before seen Boyd this way.

He said, brooding on his rifle:

“The one true passion of my life has