a thousand
burnished scales, with flaming crest proudly waving in the van, is but
an aggregation of men singly so feeble.

The hearts of the lookers-on as they gaze are swelling fast. An afflatus
of heroism given forth by this host of self-devoted men communicates
itself to the most stolid spectators. The booming of the drum fills the
brain, and the blood in the veins leaps to its rhythm. The unearthly
gayety of the fife, like the sweet, shrill song of a bird soaring above
the battle, infects the nerves till the idea of death brings a scornful
smile to the lips. Eyes glaze with rapturous tears as they rest upon the
flag. There is a thrill of voluptuous sweetness in the thought of dying
for it. Life seems of value only as it gives the poorest something to
sacrifice. It is dying that makes the glory of the world, and all other
employments seem but idle while the regiment passes.

The time for farewells is gone by. The lucky men at the ends of the
ranks have indeed an opportunity without breaking step to exchange an
occasional hand-shake with a friend on the sidewalk, or to snatch a kiss
from wife or sweetheart, but those in the middle of the line can only
look their farewells. Now and then a mother intrusts her baby to a
file-leader to be passed along from hand to hand till it reaches the
father, to be sent back with a kiss, or, maybe, perched aloft on his
shoulder, to ride to the depot, crowing at the music and clutching at
the gleaming bayonets. At every such touch of nature the people cheer
wildly. From every window and balcony the ladies shower garlands upon
the troops.

Where is Grace? for this is the Upton company which is passing now.
Yonder she stands on a balcony, between Mr. Morton and his sister. She
is very pale and the tears are streaming down her cheeks, but her face
is radiant. She is smiling through her tears, as if there was no such
thing on earth as fear or sorrow. She has looked forward to this ordeal
with harrowing expectations, only to find herself at the trying moment
seized upon and lifted above all sense of personal affliction by the
passion of self-devotion with which the air is electric. Her face as
she looks down upon her lover is that of a priestess in the ecstasy
of sacrifice. He is saluting with his sword. Now he has passed. With a
great sob she turns away. She does not care for the rest of the pageant.
Her patriotism has suddenly gone. The ecstasy of sacrifice is over. She
is no longer a