He sank down on the bench, one elbow on his crossed knee, the other arm hanging listlessly by his side.  His face grew lined and haggard.  All the spirit, the indomitable courage of a moment ago had fled before the revelation that, try as they might, they could never conquer in this terribly unequal fight.  Then he threw out his hand and began to speak, half to her and half to the unseen armies of his fellows.

“Our armies are exhausted.  Dwindling day by day.  We are drawing from the cradle and the grave.  Old men—­who can scarcely bear the weight of a musket on their shoulders:  and boys—­mere children—­who are sacrificed under the blood-stained wheels.  The best!  The flower of our land!  We are dumping them all into a big, red hopper.  Feed!  Feed!  Always more feed for this greedy machine of war!”

Silently wife and daughter came to the man in his despair, as if to ward off some dark shape which hovered over him with brushing wings.  Their arms went around him together.

“There, there, dear,” he heard a soft voice whisper, “don’t grow despondent. Think! Even though you’ve fought a losing fight it has been a glorious one—­and God will not forget the Stars and Bars!  Remember,—­you still have us—­who love you to the end—­and fight your battles—­on our knees.”

Slowly the man looked up.

“Forgive me, honey,” he murmured remorsefully.  “You are right—­and bravest, after all.  It is you—­you women, who save us in the darkest hours.  You—­our wives—­our mothers—­who wage a silent battle in the lonely, broken homes.  You give us love and pity—­tenderness and tears—­a flag of pride that turns defeat to victory.  The women of the South,” he cried, and Herbert Cary doffed his hat before his wife, “the crutch on which the staggering hope of Dixie leans!”

There came, then, the sound of hurrying footsteps.  Once more Sally Ann rushed from the house but this time genuine danger was written plainly in her face.

“Mars’ Cary!  Mars’ Cary!  Dey’s comin’ dis time—­sho’ ’nuff!”

“How many?” Cary cried, springing for the roadway and his horse.

“Dey’s comin’ thu’ de woods—­an’ Lawd Gawd, de yearth is fyar blue wid’ ’em.”

“Billy!” commanded Cary.  “Take Lightfoot as fast as you can down to the edge of the woods.  Don’t worry, Hallie, they’ll never catch me once I’m in the saddle.”

He stooped and kissed her, then caught up Virgie for a last hug, burying his worn face in her curls.  “Good-by, little one.  Take good care of Mother.  Good-by!”

With one last grasp his wife caught his hand.  “Herbert! which way do you go?”

“Across the river—­to the Chesterfield side.”

“But the Yankees came that way, too!”

“I’ll circle around them.  If they’ve left a guard at the crossing I’ll swim the river higher up.”  He slapped his holster with his open hand.  “Listen for three shots.  If they come in quick succession—­then I’ve crossed—­I’m safe.  If I only had a few men I’d stay, but alone, I can’t—­you know I can’t.  Good-by!  God bless you.”  And in another moment he was in the saddle—­had waved his hand—­was gone.