e sickening odor of roasted human flesh yet filled the air.

It was late at night on the day after, before the wounded had all been
moved. The surgeons with sleeves rolled high, their arms red, their
shirts soaked, bent over their task through every hour of the black
night until legs and arms were piled in heaps ten feet high beside each
operating table.

Thirty thousand magnificent men had been killed and mangled.

The report from Chancellorsville drifted slowly and ominously northward.
The White House was still. The dead were walking beside the lonely, tall
figure who paced the floor in dumb anguish, pausing now and then at the
window to look toward the hills of Virginia.

Lee's fame now filled the world and the North shivered at the sound of
it.

Volunteering had ceased. But the cannon were still calling for fodder.
The draft was applied. And when it was resisted in fierce riots, the
soldiers trained their guns on their own people. The draft wheel was
turned by bayonets and the ranks of the army filled with fresh young
bodies to be mangled.

Hooker fell before Lee's genius and Meade took his place.

The Confederate Government, flushed with its costly victories, once more
sought a political sensation by the invasion of the North. Lee marched
his army of veterans into Pennsylvania.

At Gettysburg he met Meade.

The first day the Confederates won. They drove the blue army back
through the streets of the village and their gallant General, John F.
Reynolds, was killed.

The second day was one of frightful slaughter. The Union army at its
close had lost twenty thousand men, the Confederate fifteen thousand.

The moon rose and flooded the rocky field of blood and death with silent
glory. From every shadow and from every open space through the hot
breath of the night came the moans of thousands and high above their
chorus rang the cries for water.

No succor could be given. The Confederates were massing their artillery
on Seminary Ridge. The Union legions were burrowing and planting new
batteries.

Fifteen thousand helpless, wounded men lay on the field through the long
hours of the night.

At ten o'clock a wounded man began to sing one of the old hymns of Zion
whose words had come down the ages wet with tears and winged with human
hopes. In five minutes ten thousand voices, from blue and gray, had
joined. Some of them quivered with agony. Some of them trembled with a
dying breath. For two hours the hills e