few calm words, by General Lee to his corps commanders, and an informal conversation ensued.  It was finally agreed that the army should advance, on the next morning, beyond Appomattox Court-House, and, if only General Sheridan’s cavalry were found in front, brush that force from its path, and proceed on its way to Lynchburg.  If, however, the Federal infantry was discovered in large force beyond the Court-House, the attempt to break through was to be abandoned, and a flag dispatched to General Grant requested an interview for the arrangement of the terms of a capitulation of the Southern army.

With a heavy heart, General Lee acquiesced in this plan of proceeding, and soon afterward the council of war terminated—­the corps commanders saluting the commander-in-chief, who returned their bows with grave courtesy, and separating to return to their own bivouacs.

In spite, however, of the discouraging and almost desperate condition of affairs, General Lee seems still to have clung to the hope that he might be able to cut his way through the force in his front.  He woke from brief slumber beside his bivouac-fire at about three o’clock in the morning, and calling an officer of his staff, Colonel Venable, sent him to General Gordon, commanding the front, to ascertain his opinion, at that moment, of the probable result of an attack upon the enemy.  General Gordon’s reply was, “Tell General Lee that my old corps is reduced to a frazzle, and, unless I am supported by Longstreet heavily, I do not think we can do any thing more.”

General Lee received this announcement with an expression of great feeling, and after a moment’s silence said:  “There is nothing left but to go to General Grant, and I would rather die a thousand deaths!”

His staff-officers had now gathered around him, and one of them said:  “What will history say of our surrendering if there is any possibility of escape?  Posterity will not understand it.”  To these words, General Lee replied:  “Yes, yes, they will not understand our situation; but that is not the question.  The question is, whether it is right; and, if it is right, I take the responsibility.”

His expression of buoyant hopefulness had now changed to one of deep melancholy, and it was evident to those around him that the thought of surrender was worse to him than the bitterness of death.  For the first time his courage seemed to give way, and he was nearly unmanned.  Turning to an officer standing near him, he said, his deep voice filled with hopeless sadness:  “How easily I could get rid of this, and be at rest!  I have only to ride along the line and all will be over!”

He was silent for a short time after uttering these words, and then added, with a heavy sigh:  “But it is our duty to live.  What will become of the women and children of the South, if we are not here to protect them?”