E. Lee" and
entered the Confederate lines. "General Lee's headquarters?" They were
pointed out, an old house shaded by oaks. He rode hither, gave his horse
to the courier with him, and spoke to the aide who appeared. "Tell
General Lee, some one from the Valley."

The aide shot a quick glance, then opened a door to the left. "General
Lee will be at leisure presently. Will you wait here, sir?"

He from the Valley entered. It was a large, simply furnished room, with
steel engravings on the walls,--the 1619 House of Burgesses, Spotswood
on the Crest of the Blue Ridge with his Golden Horseshoe Knights,
Patrick Henry in Old St. John's, Jefferson writing the Declaration of
Independence, Washington receiving the Sword of Cornwallis. The windows
were open to the afternoon breeze and the birds were singing in a
rosebush outside. There were three men in the room. One having a large
frame and a somewhat heavy face kept the chair beside the table with a
kind of granite and stubborn air. He rested like a boulder on a mountain
slope; marked with old scars, only waiting to be set in motion again to
grind matters small. The second man, younger, slender, with a short red
beard, leaned against the window, smelled the roses, and listened to the
birds. The third, a man of forty, with a gentle manner and very honest
and kindly eyes, studied the engravings. All three wore the stars of
major-generals.

The man from the Valley, entering, dropped his cloak and showed the same
insignia. D. H. Hill, leaving the engravings, came forward and took him
by both hands. The two had married sisters; moreover each was possessed
of fiery religious convictions; and Hill, though without the genius of
the other, was a cool, intelligent, and determined fighter. The two had
not met since Jackson's fame had come upon him.

It clothed him now like a mantle. The man sitting by the table got
ponderously to his feet; the one by the window left the contemplation of
the rosebush. "You know one another by name only, I believe, gentlemen?"
said D. H. Hill. "General Jackson--General Longstreet, General Ambrose
Powell Hill."

The four sat down, Jackson resting his sabre across his knees. He had
upon him the dust of three counties; he was all one neutral hue like a
faded leaf, save that his eyes showed through, grey-blue, intense
enough, though quiet. He was worn to spareness.

Longstreet spoke in his heavy voice. "Well, general, Fate is making of
your Valley the Fla