vine all
over creation.--That's Harry Hayes's band--playing some Frenchy thing or
other! Cavalry's over there--I know you've got Ashby, but Flournoy and
Munford are right wicked, too!"

"The--Virginia is with you, sir?"

"Yes. Fine regiment. You know it?"

"I know one of its officers--Major Stafford."

"Oh, we all know Maury Stafford! Fine fellow, but damned restless.
General Taylor says he is in love. I was in love once myself, but I
don't remember that I was restless. He is. He was with Loring but
transferred.--You went to Romney together?"

"Yes, we went together."

"Fine fellow, but unhappy. Canker somewhere, I should say. Here we are,
and if General Jackson don't treat my army well, I'll--I'll--I'll know
he's crazy!"

The review was at last over. Back under the wine sap Ewell wrote his
answer to Jackson, then, curled in a remarkable attitude on the bench
beneath the tree ("I'm a nervous major-general, sir. Can't help it.
Didn't sleep. Can't sleep."), put Cleave through a catechism searching
and shrewd. His piping, treble voice, his varied oaths and quaintly
petulant talk, his roughness of rind and inner sweetness made him,
crumpled under the apple tree, in his grey garb and cavalry boots, with
his bright sash and bright eyes, a figure mellow and olden out of an
ancient story. Cleave also, more largely built, more muscular, a little
taller, with a dark, thin, keen face, the face of a thinking
man-at-arms, clad in grey, clean but worn, seated on a low stool beneath
the tinted boughs, his sword between his knees, his hands clasped over
the hilt, his chin on his hands--Cleave, too, speaking of skirmishes, of
guns and horsemen, of the massed enemy, of mountain passes and fordable
rivers, had the value of a figure from a Flemish or Venetian canvas. The
form of the moment was of old time, old as the smell of apple blossoms
or the buzzing of the bees; old as these and yet persistently, too, of
the present as were these. The day wore on to afternoon, and at last the
messenger from Jackson was released.

The--Virginia had its encampment upon the edge of a thick and venerable
wood, beech and oak, walnut and hickory. Regimental headquarters was
indeed within the forest, half a dozen tents pitched in a glade sylvan
enough for Robin Hood. Here Cleave found Stafford sitting, writing,
before the adjutant's tent. He looked up, laid down his pen and rose.
"Ah! Where did you come from? I thought you in the Valley, in traini