Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his cot—­thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift to pull away the veil from the statues again.  So it had always been with him.  One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, and that self stepped forth victorious.  It had been thickening, fold on fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be done, and should be done with his own hands.  And then he would go back to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass.  And he wondered what that last look and smile of hers could mean.  Later, he moved in his sleep—­dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa—­with his mind’s eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his heart that waked him.  And he remembered that it was the first time he had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land.  But it had come to him—­awake and asleep—­and it was genuine.

VI

It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were drooping toward the earth.  The woods were musical with the cries of blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was sweet with the love-calls of larks.  The sun was fast nearing the zenith, and air and earth were lusty with life.  Already the lane, lined with locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting camp in the State for the Spanish war.  There was a big crowd in the lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum came forth to Crittenden’s ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised head and tail and quickened his pace proudly.

For a week he had drilled at Chickamauga.  He had done the work of a plain soldier, and he liked it—­liked his temporary comrades, who were frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their superiors on top of the hill.  To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection.  He liked Abe’s bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a Westerner—­the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character of the border backwoodsman of the Revolution.  Reynolds was a bully, and Crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy Sanders when Abe was not around, and bullied the “rookies.”  Abe seemed to have little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier’s life once in an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally.  But Blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him most; perhaps, because Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at once.  From Washington, Crittenden had heard not a word; nor from General Carter, who had left Chickamauga before he could see him again.  If, within two days more, no word came, Crittenden had made up his mind to go to Tampa, where the little General was, and where Rivers’s regiment had been ordered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his chance.