Young de Langeais sat on a low stump, and the great crowd made a solid mass around him.  But he did not see them, nor the pine woods nor the heavy cannon sitting on the ridges.  He looked instead into a region of fancy, where the colors were brilliant or gay or tender as he imagined them.  Harry, with no technical knowledge of music but with a great love of it, recognized at once the touch of a master, and what was more, the soul of one.

To him the violin was not great, unless the player was great, but when the player was great it was the greatest musical instrument of all.  He watched de Langeais’ wrapt face, and for him too the thousands of soldiers, the pines and the cannon on the ridges melted away.  He did not know what the young musician was playing, probably some old French air or a great lyric outburst of the fiery Verdi, whose music had already spread through America.

“A great artist,” whispered Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire in his ear.  “He studied at the schools in New Orleans and then for two years in Paris.  But he came back to fight.  Nothing could keep Julien from the army, but he brought his violin with him.  We Latins, or at least we who are called Latins, steep our souls in music.  It’s not merely intellectual with us.  It’s passion, fire, abandonment, triumph and all the great primitive emotions of the human race.”

Harry’s feelings differed somewhat from those of Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire—­in character but not in power—­and as young de Langeais played on he began to think what a loss a stray bullet could make.  Why should a great artist be allowed to come on the battle line?  There were hundreds of thousands of common men.  One could replace another, but nobody could replace the genius, a genius in which the whole world shared.  It was not possible for either drill or training to do it, and yet a little bullet might take away his life as easily as it would that of a plowboy.  They were all alike to the bullets and the shells.

De Langeais finished, and a great shout of applause arose.  The cheering became so insistent that he was compelled to play again.

“His family is well-to-do,” said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire just before he began playing once more, “and they’ll see that he goes back to Paris for study as soon as the war is over.  If they didn’t I would.”

It did not seem to occur to Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire that young de Langeais could be killed, and Harry began to share his confidence.  De Langeais now played the simple songs of the old South, and there was many a tear in the eyes of war-hardened youth.  The sun was setting in a sea of fire, and the pine forests turned red in its blaze.  In the distance the waters of the Rapidan were crimson, too, and a light wind out of the west sighed among the pines, forming a subdued chorus to the violin.