ces!"

Cleave laughed. "It's not that they are so fine, but that we are so
weather-beaten and rusty! They're only in good working-day trim. We'll
have to polish up at Rude's Hill."

"This is the 1st Maryland on the hillside," said the guide the corporal
had given; "there with the blue flag. Mighty fine feathers, but I reckon
they're gamecocks all right! Elzey's Brigade's over beside the
woods--Virginian to the backbone. Trimble's got a fine lot--Georgians
and Alabamians and Mississippians. Here come some of the 2d Virginia
Cavalry! Ain't they pretty?"

They were. But Harris stood up for the absent Valley. "Huh! Ashby's good
enough for me! Ashby's got three stallions--the white he's fondest of,
and a black like a piece of coal, and a red roan--"

The guide nodded energetically. "Oh, we think a heap of Ashby ourselves!
There ain't anybody that the men listen about more eagerly. We ain't
setting up on this side of the mountains to beat _him_! But I reckon the
2d and the 6th'll do right well when they get a chance. Yes, sir,
General Taylor's Brigade. He's got a lot of Frenchmen from
Louisiana--Acadians I've heard them called--and they can't speak a word
of English, poor souls!--There goes their band again. They're always
playing, dancing, and cooking rice. We call them Parlavoos--name of
their county, I reckon.--He's got Wheat's Battalion, too. Sorrow a bit
of a Frenchman there--they're Irish Tartars!--That's headquarters, sir.
By the apple orchard."

An aide brought Cleave to a fair-sized central tent, set beside a great
wine sap just coming into bloom. Around it was a space of trodden earth,
to one side a cheerful fire and a darky cook, in front a pine table,
over which a coloured boy was spreading a very clean tablecloth. Out of
the tent came a high, piping voice. "Good-morning, Hamilton! What is it?
What is it?--An officer from General Jackson? All right! All right! glad
to see him. Tell him to wait--Jim, you black idiot, what have I done
with that button?"

The aide smiled, Cleave smiled. There was something in the voice that
announced the person, quaintly rough, lovable and gallant,--"dear Dick
Ewell." He came out presently, a small man with a round bald head, hook
nose and bright eyes.

"This the officer? Glad to see you, Major--Major Cleave? Stay to
breakfast. Bob, you black rascal, another plate! Can't give you
much,--mysterious inward complaint, myself,--can't eat anything but
frumenty.--Well, sir, how is