Lee was seeking to turn toward the South and effect a
junction with Johnston in North Carolina, but Dick, his thoughts being
his own, did not see how it was possible. When the Confederacy began to
fall it fell fast. It was only after they passed through Richmond that
he saw how frail the structure had become, and how its supporting timbers
had been shot away. It was great cause of wonder to him that Lee should
still be able to hold out, and to fight off cavalry raids, as he was
doing.

And the Army of Northern Virginia, although but a fragment, was
dangerous. In these its last hours, reduced almost to starvation and
pitiful in numbers, it fought with a courage and tenacity worthy of its
greatest days. It gave to Lee a devotion that would have melted a heart
of stone. Whenever he commanded, it turned fiercely upon its remorseless
pursuers, and compelled them to give ground for a time. But when it
sought to march on again the cavalry of Sheridan and the infantry of
Grant followed closely once more, continually cutting off the fringe of
the dwindling army.

Dick saw Lee himself on a hill near Sailor's Creek, as Sheridan pressed
forward against him. The gray leader had turned. The troops of Ewell
and Anderson were gathered at the edge of a forest, and other infantry
masses stood near. Lee on Traveler sat just in front of them, and was
surveying the enemy through his glasses. Dick used his own glasses,
and he looked long, and with the most intense curiosity, mingled with
admiration, at the Lion of the South, whom they were about to bring
to the ground. The sun was just setting, and Lee was defined sharply
against the red blaze. Dick saw his features, his gray hair, and he
could imagine the defiant blaze of his eyes. It was an unforgettable
picture, the one drawn there by circumstances at the closing of an era.

Then he took notice of a figure, also on horseback, not far behind Lee,
a youthful figure, the face thin and worn, none other than his cousin,
Harry Kenton. Dick's heart took a glad leap. Harry still rode with
his chief, and Dick's belief that he would survive the war was almost
justified.

Then followed a scattering fire to which sunset and following darkness
put an end, and once more the Southern leader retreated, with Sheridan
and his cavalry forever at his heels, giving him no rest, keeping food
from reaching him, and capturing more of his men. The wounded lion
turned again, and, in a fierce