“I am not nervous—­it was so sudden.  I was startled.”  She turned away with a quick movement of annoyance, releasing herself from Leila’s arm.  “Let’s go home.  Oh, my God!” she cried, as once again the cannon-roar shook the leaves on the upward slope before them.  “It is the voice of war.  Can I never get away from it—­never—­never?”

“You will not be troubled again to-day,” said the girl, “and the smaller guns on the further meadow we hardly notice at the house.”

Ann’s steps quickened.  She had been scared at her own realization of her want of self-government and was once more in command of her emotions.  “Do not talk to me, Leila.  I was quite upset—­I am all right now.”

The great guns were sent away next day on their errands of destruction.  Then the two lonely women waited as the whole country waited for news which whatever it might be would carry grief to countless homes.

On the second day of July, 1863, under a heavy cloud of dust which hung high in air over the approach of the Baltimore Pike to Gettysburg, the long column of the reserve artillery of the Potomac army rumbled along the road, and more and more clearly the weary men heard the sound of cannon.  About ten in the morning the advance guard was checked and the line came to a halt.  James Penhallow, who since dawn had been urging on his command, rode in haste along the side of the cumbered road to where a hurrying brigade of infantry crossing his way explained why his guns were thus brought to a standstill.  He saw that he must wait for the foot soldiers to go by.  The cannoneers dismounted from the horses or dropped off the caissons, and glad of a rest lit their pipes and lay down or wandered about in search of water.

The Colonel, pleased to be on time, was in gay good-humour as he talked to the men or listened to the musketry fire far to the left.  He said to a group of men, “We are all as grey as the Rebs, boys, but it is good Pennsylvania dust.”  As he spoke a roar of laughter was heard from the neighbourhood of the village cemetery on his right.  He rode near it and saw the men gathered before an old notice board.  He read:  “Any person found using fire arms in this vicinity will be prosecuted according to law.”  Penhallow shook with laughter.  “Guess we’ll have to be right careful, Colonel,” said a sergeant.

“You will, indeed.”

“It’s an awful warning, boys,” said a private.  “Shouldn’t wonder if Bob Lee set it up to scare us.”

“I’d like to take it home.”  They chaffed the passing infantry, and were answered in kind.  Penhallow impatient saw that the road would soon be clear.  As he issued quick orders and men mounted in haste, a young aide rode up, saluted, and said, “I have orders, Colonel, from General Hunt to guide you to where he desires your guns to be parked.”

“One moment,” said Penhallow; “the road is a tangle of wagons:”  and to a captain, “Ride on and side-track those wagons; be quick too.”  Then he said to the aide, “We have a few minutes—­how are things going?  I heard of General Reynold’s death, and little more.”