* * * * *

Meanwhile, other troops had gone up to the encounter; other regiments strove to win what these men had failed to gain; and through the night, and the storm, and the terrific reception, did their gallant endeavor—­in vain.

* * * * *

The next day a flag of truce went up to beg the body of the heroic young chief who had so led that marvellous assault.  It came back without him.  A ditch, deep and wide, had been dug; his body, and those of twenty-two of his men found dead upon and about him, flung into it in one common heap and the word sent back was, “We have buried him with his niggers.”

It was well done.  The fair, sweet face and gallant breast lie peacefully enough under their stately monument of ebony.

It was well done.  What more fitting close of such a life,—­what fate more welcome to him who had fought with them, had loved, and believed in them, had led them to death,—­than to lie with them when they died?

It was well done.  Slavery buried these men, black and white, together,—­black and white in a common grave.  Let Liberty see to it, then, that black and white be raised together in a life better than the old.

CHAPTER XVII

  “Spirits are not finely touched
  But to fine issues.”

  SHAKESPEARE

Surrey was to depart for his command on Monday night, and as there were various matters which demanded his attention in town ere leaving, he drove Francesca to the city on the preceding Sunday,—­a soft clear summer evening, full of pleasant sights and sounds.  They scarcely spoke as, hand in hand, they sat drinking in the scene whilst the old gray, for they wished no high-stepping prancers for this ride, jogged on the even tenor of his way.  Above them, the blue of the sky never before seemed so deep and tender, while in it floated fleecy clouds of delicate amber, rose, and gold, like gossamer robes of happy spirits invisible to human eyes.  The leaves and grass just stirred in the breeze, making a slight, musical murmur, and across them fell long shadows cast by the westering sun.  A sentiment so sweet and pleasurable as to be tinged with pain, took possession of these young, susceptible souls, as the influences of the time closed about them.  In our happiest moments, our moments of utmost exaltation, it is always thus:—­when earth most nearly approaches the beatitudes of heaven, and the spirit stretches forward with a vain longing for the far off, which seems but a little way beyond; the unattained and dim, which for a space come near.

“Darling!” said Surrey softly, “does it not seem easy now to die?”

“Yes, Willie,” she whispered, “I feel as though it would be stepping over a very little stream to some new and beautiful shore.”

Doubtless, when a pure and great soul is close to eternity, ministering angels draw nigh to one soon to be of their number, and cast something of the peace and glory of their presence on the spirit yet held by its cerements of clay.