Threatened from Tennessee and cut off from Richmond, Hunt had made up his mind to march eastward to join Lee, when the news of the surrender came.  Had the sun at that moment dropped suddenly to the horizon from the heaven above them, those Confederates would have been hardly more startled or plunged into deeper despair.  Crowds of infantry threw down their arms and, with the rest, all sense of discipline was lost.  Of the cavalry, however, not more than ten men declined to march south, and out they moved through the drenching rain in a silence that was broken only with a single cheer when ninety men from another Kentucky brigade joined them, who, too, felt that as long as the Confederate Government survived, there was work for them to do.  So on they went to keep up the struggle, if the word was given, skirmishing, fighting and slipping past the enemies that were hemming them in, on with Davis, his cabinet, and General Breckinridge to join Taylor and Forrest in Alabama.  Across the border of South Carolina, an irate old lady upbraided Hunt for allowing his soldiers to take forage from her barn.

“You are a gang of thieving Kentuckians,” she said, hotly; “you are afraid to go home, while our boys are surrendering decently.”

“Madam!”—­Renfrew the Silent spoke—­spoke from the depths of his once brilliant jacket—­“you South Carolinians had a good deal to say about getting up this war, but we Kentuckians have contracted to close it out.”

Then came the last Confederate council of war.  In turn, each officer spoke of his men and of himself and each to the same effect; the cause was lost and there was no use in prolonging the war.

“We will give our lives to secure your safety, but we cannot urge our men to struggle against a fate that is inevitable, and perhaps thus forfeit all hope of a restoration to their homes and friends.”

Davis was affable, dignified, calm, undaunted.

“I will hear of no plan that is concerned only with my safety.  A few brave men can prolong the war until this panic has passed, and they will be a nucleus for thousands more.”

The answer was silence, as the gaunt, beaten man looked from face to face.  He rose with an effort.

“I see all hope is gone,” he said, bitterly, and though his calm remained, his bearing was less erect, his face was deathly pale and his step so infirm that he leaned upon General Breckinridge as he neared the door—­in the bitterest moment, perhaps, of his life.

So, the old Morgan’s Men, so long separated, were united at the end.  In a broken voice General Hunt forbade the men who had followed him on foot three hundred miles from Virginia to go farther, but to disperse to their homes; and they wept like children.

In front of him was a big force of Federal cavalry; retreat the way he had come was impossible, and to the left, if he escaped, was the sea; but dauntless Hunt refused to surrender except at the order of a superior, or unless told that all was done that could be done to assure the escape of his President.  That order came from Breckinridge.