And then he noticed another man, a little, red-faced Irishman, one of the drummers.  The very spirit of the drum seemed to have entered into him—­into his hands and his feet, his eyes and his head, and his round little body.  He played a long roll between the verses, and it seemed as if he must surely be swept away upon the wings of it.  Catching Montague’s eye, he nodded and smiled; and after that, every once in a while their eyes would meet and exchange a greeting.  They sang “The Loyal Legioner” and “The Army Bean” and “John Brown’s Body” and “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching”; all the while the drum rattled and thundered, and the little drummer laughed and sang, the very incarnation of the care-free spirit of the soldier!

They stopped for a while, and the little man came over and was introduced.  Lieutenant O’Day was his name; and after he had left, General Prentice leaned over to Montague and told him a story.  “That little man,” he said, “began as a drummer-boy in my regiment, and went all through the war in my brigade; and two years ago I met him on the street one cold winter night, as thin as I am, and shivering in a summer overcoat.  I took him to dinner with me and watched him eat, and I made up my mind there was something wrong.  I made him take me home, and do you know, the man was starving!  He had a little tobacco shop, and he’d got into trouble—­the trust had taken away his trade.  And he had a sick wife, and a daughter clerking at six dollars a week!”

The General went on to tell of his struggle to induce the little man to accept his aid—­to accept a loan of a few hundreds of dollars from Prentice, the banker!  “I never had anything hurt me so in all my life,” he said.  “Finally I took him into the bank—­and now you can see he has enough to eat!”

They began to sing again, and Montague sat and thought over the story.  It seemed to him typical of the thing that made this meeting beautiful to him—­of the spirit of brotherhood and service that reigned here.—­They sang “We are tenting to-night on the old camp ground”; they sang “Benny Havens, Oh!” and “A Soldier No More”; they sang other songs of tenderness and sorrow, and men felt a trembling in their voices and a mist stealing over their eyes.  Upon Montague a spell was falling.

Over these men and their story there hung a mystery—­a presence of wonder, that discloses itself but rarely to mortals, and only to those who have dreamed and dared.  They had not found it easy to do their duty; they had had their wives and children, their homes and friends and familiar places; and all these they had left to serve the Republic.  They had taught themselves a new way of life—­they had forged themselves into an iron sword of war.  They had marched and fought in dust and heat, in pouring rains and driving, icy blasts; they had become men grim and terrible in spirit-men with limbs of steel, who could march or ride for days and nights, who could