“This should belong to you, Harry.”

“It is yours to give, father,” said Harry, gently.

“It shall never be drawn against my roof and your mother.”

The boy was silent.

“You are going far North?” asked the General, more gently.  “You will not fight on Kentucky soil?”

“You taught me that the first duty of a soldier is obedience.  I must go where I’m ordered.”

“God grant that you two may never meet.”

“Father!” It was a cry of horror from both the lads.

The horses were waiting at the stiles.  The General took Dan in his arms and the boy broke away and ran down the steps, weeping.

“Father,” said Harry, with trembling lips, “I hope you won’t be too hard on me.  Perhaps the day will come when you won’t be so ashamed of me.  I hope you and mother will forgive me.  I can’t do otherwise than I must.  Will you shake hands with me, father?”

“Yes, my son.  God be with you both.”

And then, as he watched the boys ride side by side to the gate, he added: 

“I could kill my own brother with my own hand for this.”

He saw them stop a moment at the gate; saw them clasp hands and turn opposite ways—­one with his face set for Tennessee, the other making for the Ohio.  Dan waved his cap in a last sad good-by.  Harry rode over the hill without turning his head.  The General stood rigid, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring across the gray fields between them.  Through the winds, came the low sound of sobbing.

CHAPTER 21.  MELISSA

Shortly after dusk, that night, two or three wagons moved quietly out of Lexington, under a little guard with guns loaded and bayonets fixed.  Back at the old Armory—­the home of the “Rifles”—­a dozen youngsters drilled vigorously with faces in a broad grin, as they swept under the motto of the company—­“Our laws the commands of our Captain.”  They were following out those commands most literally.  Never did Lieutenant Hunt give his orders more sonorously—­he could be heard for blocks away.  Never did young soldiers stamp out maneuvers more lustily—­they made more noise than a regiment.  Not a man carried a gun, though ringing orders to “Carry arms” and “Present arms” made the windows rattle.  It was John Morgan’s first ruse.  While that mock-drill was going on, and listening Unionists outside were laughing to think how those Rifles were going to be fooled next day, the guns of the company were moving in those wagons toward Dixie—­toward mocking-bird-haunted Bowling Green, where the underfed, unclothed, unarmed body of Albert Sydney Johnston’s army lay, with one half-feathered wing stretching into the Cumberland hills and the frayed edge of the other touching the Ohio.