CHAPTER XII.

THE sky looked down so tenderly, so tenderly. And the haunted thickets were all a-bloom. Gentle grasses had crept to the verge of the open, empty graves, and trailing through them was the mystic purple passion-flower. Delicately tinted wild roses had clambered into the funereal cedar, hiding its sorrow with the splendors of a new spring. All along the green perspective the elder shook out its snowy banners.

Restful places were these--where only the unquiet ghosts were wont to walk. Here the dove was on her nest. The mocking-bird’s melody thrilled through the solitude. All the timid and helpless wild things found their refuge among the phantoms; there were rabbits, and squirrels, and quail. No fear of man in these sequestered spots unbroken by the ploughshare still, untrodden by mortal foot.

A luxuriant growth of bear-grass fringed the banks of the river as it flowed through the battle-field. The reflection of the tall, stately stems, hung about with myriads of snowy bell-like blossoms, embellished the margin of the bright water for miles. And the water was very bright to-day--full of concentric silver circlets, and golden sunshine, and a blue sky brought down to earth and made sweetly familiar. It seemed that the two skiffs, freighted with Edgar’s birthday guests, could but glide swiftly through so limpid a medium, and they skimmed along as if propelling themselves with their unfeathered wings.

“We shall meet Mr. Percy at the Coteatoy Bluffs,--Horace Percy,” said Mrs. Kirby with animation. “He reached Chattalla yesterday--yes--in the afternoon. He took great pains,” she continued, laughing slyly, “to let us know he had returned. He drove over last evening--yes--he said he was fishing for an invitation to fish.”

She waved her curls and smiled blandly. “Like a match-making mother,” thought Estwicke furiously.

With jealous quickness he turned his eyes on Marcia. No rush of emotion had sent the color to her cheeks now--only the faintly roseate tinge, that dwelt there when her heart was calm, merged delicately and imperceptibly into the warm whiteness of her brow and throat. She had thrown off her hat. The sunbeams mingled with that perennial golden glinting in her brown hair. The pliant grace of her figure embellished the simple lawn dress which she wore, such as she always wore these warm days,--it was pure white, with a dainty lace-like pattern traced upon it in black stripes; one dress differed from another only in the arrangement of many fluted ruffles, that gave it a petalled appearance--“double,” as the gardeners say; it was like a flower, moreover, in its exquisite freshness--it seemed to Estwicke to have bloomed only this morning.

“He was a very successful angler,” said Mrs. Kirby,--“caught two invitations, in fact. He tells us that he has a friend staying with him--a Mr. Brennett--and that he is presumptuous enough to hope that together they can fill the gap made by my brother’s absence. Yes, my brother was called to Marston on business--very suddenly--will be gone several weeks--too bad--too bad!”

Here and there, as they rowed, they could catch a glimpse of the battle-field--the long lines of fortifications rising in billowy green sweeps from the level expanse. In mid-stream were the stone piers of the old turnpike bridge. As the boat was passing, Estwicke glanced up and up the piles of masonry, austere and sternly suggestive, despite the soft matutinal influences; despite the mosses and vines that come always with their clinging grace to dull the sharp edges of ruin; despite a nest in a niche and a brooding bird.

Well, the sentries tramped over this water once! Only the sunshine guards the wreck of a bridge now. And here blood was shed. There were flames in the night to cover a mad retreat and impede a swift and fierce pursuit. And now only Marcia’s joyous laughter, and the fresh, sweet voices of the children in the other skiff, and the melodious dip of oars, and the restful peace of the springtide. And all that is gone; is forgotten. And better so! A moment more and the ruined piers were behind them.

And now they were among the shadows; they had reached the forests at last, and a bend in the river brought them suddenly in sight of the Coteatoy Bluffs and of a skiff drifting in the deep glooms below. Brennett, idly dipping his oars now and then, was cynically watching Percy, who was standing, his dark eyes turned eagerly upon the approaching boats, his fresh complexion all the fresher for a sudden accession of color, his delicate black mustache scarcely hiding a quiver of excitement on his lips. His white linen suit rendered his tall, lithe figure and every gesture, as he fanned himself with his hat, very distinct upon the olive green and brownish shadows about him, and instantly the children in the nearest skiff set up a shrill acclaim of recognition and salutation. Mrs. Kirby waved her curls and nodded benignly to him. Marcia was blushing and smiling. Mrs. Ridgeway flourished her handkerchief.

“Why, God bless me,” spluttered old Mr. Ridgeway, “how well the boy is looking.”

Estwicke suddenly felt alien--friendless. This man was coming back among people who had known him from his infancy; they all called him “Horace.” His intimacy with them had its root in habitudes that dated back two generations. They all liked him, and indeed it would be strange if a dull old stock of a country neighborhood, such as this, were insensible of the charm of a gay, vivacious young worldling grafted upon it, brilliant with foreign influences, and vigorous with a new growth. His careful art in conserving his popularity had been observed only sufficiently to give rise to the local report that he had political aspirations, and to lead to harmless solicitations from “many voters.” He fought shy of these, gratified, but unambitious of the heavy cares of legislation; his coyness was held as proof of precocious statesmanship, of latent designs awaiting development, and gave him the reputation of being “deep.”

It did not escape Estwicke’s fierce scrutiny that when the newcomers had run their boat close alongside, Percy’s notice of the other members of the party was the merest mechanical courtesy, and his eyes were loath to turn away from Marcia’s face. But the meeting involved the prosaic necessity of introducing his friend, and it followed hard upon this moment of sentimental apotheosis.

That moment had its peculiar interest for others. Maurice Brennett fixed his piercing eyes upon Miss Vayne with questioning intentness, until her name was pronounced, when it died out as suddenly as it had sprung up. But he looked hard at Miss St. Pierre as he was presented to her, and now his attention did not flag. It struck Estwicke’s whimsical imagination with a fleeting wonder that a hawk could bow in so conventional a manner and look so like a gentleman. For he had at once recognized the man, and that strong likeness to the feathered rascal which he had first observed over the card-table in Meredith’s room. Brennett, too, recognized him, but in a cursory and superficial manner that hardly impinged for an instant upon his deeper absorption.

“May I beg a place in your boat for Mr. Brennett?” said Percy, claiming Mrs. Kirby’s indulgence. “I am sure it would be much more agreeable for him there.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mrs. Kirby, “and you must come too.”

“Both would be too heavy in addition to your party. I think I had better stay at anchor here.”

“I hope that through your agency Chattalla has produced a fine impression on Mr. Brennett--yes--_impressed_ him,” said Mrs. Kirby, beaming out of her old black bonnet.

“Oh, I have done my duty as cicerone. I have been trying all the morning to find a lion or two about the place to show him.”

“How lucky you are!” cried Marcia, joyously. “You have found a whole menagerie!”

“It will not be so easy for you to get away from the lions,” said Mrs. Kirby, eagerly desirous of removing any constraint which the informality of their invitation might have occasioned.

From the readiness with which Percy adapted himself to the situation, it might be inferred that no man had had so little fear of lions since the days of Daniel. By reason of the proximity of the boats, it was easy for him to lean across the intervening water and talk to Marcia--in a half-suppressed tone, as if he were desirous not to offend the delicate susceptibilities of the fish. Naturally, as she turned to reply, she had, in a degree, the air of ignoring Estwicke, who, when he relinquished his oar, had seated himself beside her. It was only after some little time that she became aware of her remissness; then she made an effort to draw him into the conversation. But he had suddenly grown unresponsive--almost formal. Although he kept a careful restraint upon his words and manner, that he might make no overt sign of indignation, he resented the fact that she should have put a slight upon him for Percy’s sake; her afterthought made scant amends. Besides, he argued, her absorbed interest in Percy was significant; so far as he himself was concerned it ought to be definitive. Why should he hope against hope? He remained seated beside her, but he fell to angling presently, and seldom spoke unless directly addressed.

When Brennett stepped from one skiff to the other, the only vacant seat was beside Miss St. Pierre. As he took it he was still looking hard at her with speculating uncertainty and surprise. He had been altogether unprepared for this passive young lady with her infantile--not to say expressionless countenance. Travis’s character-sketch, in which the predominating traits were quick intelligence and tenacity of purpose, might well apply to Miss Vayne. He hardly felt satisfied as to their identity until he once more heard them addressed by their respective names. Then he again bent his keen eyes upon Antoinette’s quiescent face. Its unsuggestiveness operated momentarily as a check upon him. To judge from it she was made up of all gentle and negative qualities. He had a swift fear that he would not find here any traits of character sufficiently definite and developed to furnish him a basis for a plan of action, an impetus for that lagging project, the compromise. “Surely,” he said to himself in irritation, “no other man ever had so unpromising material to work upon,--a dolt, like Travis; a runaway horse, like Fortescue; and this nonentity, this utter blank!” And looking more like a hawk than ever, for his life he could see nothing further.

He declined the offer of a rod--he was always an unsuccessful angler, he said, and the two were thrown upon the resource of conversation to beguile the tedium of the next hour or so.

It began in this way.

“You don’t fish, Miss St. Pierre. May I ask why?”

This inquiry was propounded with a searching glance. He waited for her reply with an attention which seemed to attach to it a disproportionate importance.

“I don’t care for fishing,” she said. “It always seems to me a cruel sport.”

“Cruel? Ah, well, perhaps. But I confess I had not thought of that. I can’t regard a fish as a hero who fights for his home and his life and dies a martyr. For gustatory reasons I hope I never shall. That reflection would not improve his flavor.”

She only smiled as a rejoinder. Her peculiar talent for forcing the burden of the conversation on her interlocutor, whoever he might be, was somewhat conspicuous in the pause that ensued.

He pulled at his mustache with a preoccupied air. Even her casual silence was noteworthy--so important were the interests at stake, and so utterly destitute was he of any idea as to how he had best proceed.

“What sort of fish are in this river?” he asked. Apparently he was talking only for the sake of conversation.

“They are not valued highly, I believe,” she replied.

“That is why it seems especially cruel to catch them--when no one cares particularly for them.”

“Ah! that lets in the light. Even a sensibility so delicate has its practical element. If they were valuable you would not think it cruel to catch them; if they were valuable it might seem cruel of them not to come up and be caught. Is that your meaning?”

He had anticipated that she would be confused because of this misinterpretation, and would perhaps protest. She laughed a little, opening and shutting her black fan, and then she began to listlessly fan herself.

“I have always heard that a woman’s moral intuition is more reliable than a man’s conscientious perception. I like to be supplied with those infallible feminine convictions. I appreciate their value. I shall add that maxim of yours to my treasures,--‘Don’t be cruel unless it’s worth while.’”

He said this as if it were humorously intended, but there was a peculiarly irritating, though slight, suggestion of sarcasm in the tones of his voice. She did not seem, however, to apprehend it. She smiled placidly as her calm, unspeaking eyes rested on the swift current and its shimmering silver circlets, that whirled and whirled interfulgent, the blue sky above and the reflected blue sky below.

“She controls her temper,” he said to himself; “or, perhaps,” he added dubiously, “she has no temper to control.”

Once more he looked at her speculatively, and he felt that he made no progress.

He tried another policy.

“I hope you never attempt to put your Tennessee friends out of conceit with their little river,” he said presently, glancing disparagingly about. “Do you claim to be remarkably knowing in the matter of rivers because you live upon the banks of the Mississippi?”

She was not ready at repartee, and was at a loss for an answer to a question like this. But he was looking straight at her, and she must speak.

“No-o,” she hesitated, at a venture.

“That is right,” he rejoined, lightly. “It is what I should have expected of you. For I remember now that old French motto of the St. Xantaine family, which, freely translated, might be made to read--‘Deal gently with people who don’t own a Big River.’”

There was a change now; her color intensified, it rose to the roots of her fair hair and crept down the shadowy black crape about her throat; a surprised pleasure looked out brightly from her eyes; her lips curved suddenly in a pretty smile.

“That is a very free translation,” she said, laughing.

“Can a translator be expected to do more than give the spirit of the original?”

He spoke carelessly, but his face expressed a grave, almost breathless interest. Here, certainly, was something definite at last. Who believed more faithfully than she that the St. Xantaines had no need of the homage of Maurice Brennett, or of any other man. And yet she was flattered--infinitely flattered--by this slight tribute to the family, charged with an adequate recognition of its antiquity. It was hardly to be expected that in the consummate adroitness with which he had flung this seemingly casual remark into the conversation she should discover an astute intention. But her manner of receiving it augured great weakness. “And yet this trait of family pride is something intense,” he said to himself.

He was silent for a time, absorbed in bootless surprise that, propitiated as she must have been--as he could hardly have believed possible--by the gift of the heirloom, she should suddenly have developed that distrust of Travis which he had detected in her letters. His swift mind rushed upon its conclusion. “She was influenced against him afterward by some outside cause--a strong cause, certainly. What was it?”

He had no inclination, however, to speculate vaguely about the wrecked scheme of the exchange of property. He only wished to steer his course so as to avoid that sunken rock which had demolished his first project. What was it?

In this momentary lapse of observation, something escaped him. She was looking at him; kindly. At the instant of his introduction she had recognized his name as that of the man whose letter she had never answered, and who held an interest similar to Fortescue’s in her property; so fraught with perplexity had this whole subject become that she felt at first an unreasonable prejudice against him on this score. Now, however, she was beginning to be agreeably impressed by his manner, and more by his face, expressive as it was of a subtle power and some deep meaning--too deep, she knew intuitively, for her fathoming. She fell to wondering who he was, and why she had never heard of him in New Orleans, and what he did with himself in the world.

Presently he resumed: “And what do you think of Tennessee cotton, Miss St. Pierre? Does it seem a caricature of the plant when you remember the big fields, almost breast high even at this time of the year, along Bayou Gloire?”

“Oh, Bayou Gloire! How familiar that sounds!” she cried. “Are you from that part of the State?”

“No--I am not from Louisiana. My experience along Bayou Gloire has been only as an angler--ah, I forget your tender sensibilities! To reassure you, I will say that I committed few murders--the skill was lacking. I used to go with Mr. Travis--who, as you know, is an expert sportsman and truculent to a degree. By the way, when did you see him last?”

There was a pause. Surely she had no need to guard her words. But all that had come from Travis’s visit--the proposed exchange of property, the first suggestion of an outstanding title, the significance which finding the locket in an empty grave seemed then to possess--invested the very mention of it with a certain importance, which, however, she felt was undue, and very foolish.

She had a sense, that made her angry with herself, of closely skirting many secrets as she said,

“It has been some time now since I have seen him.”

The pause and this simple reply gave him food for reflection.

“How reticent she must be where anything touches her interests,” was his conclusion. “‘Some time’--that might mean three weeks, or three months, or three years. She has no reason, I should judge, not to state explicitly when it was. She is instinctively, constitutionally cautious and reticent.”

The approach, accidental though it had seemed, to these subjects, which had given her so much disquietude, had the effect of putting her on her guard. She noted, with a sudden surprise, the keenly observant expression of his bright eyes. She had an unpleasant fancy that there was something sinister in their brilliancy; she began to feel like a creature undergoing vivisection, whose sufferings might be aggravated by the knowledge that they were not for the benefit of humanity or of science, but for the personal advantage of the operator. She did not entirely understand her own motive, but the leading idea in her mind was to interrupt his study of her pause and her words, and above all, and before all, to change the look he bent upon her. Yet even while she spoke she was arguing within herself as to why she should fear his analysis or his look.

“Have you known Mr. Travis long?” she asked.

“For many years,” he returned. “We were at college together. I have a number of friends among your connections and relatives. It makes me feel as if I had met you before. You will permit me that little hallucination of acquaintance?”

She smiled upon him in sudden reassurance. How absurd, she said to herself, that she should imagine that this man weighed her words and watched her face with some intent and secret motive! What purpose could he serve?

“I have often heard you spoken of among them. Perhaps you know that you are a favorite subject of conversation with Mrs. Bradley. The last time I saw her she was talking of you to a more distant relative of yours,--Mr. Fortescue.”

Once more she experienced a quick revulsion of feeling. It seemed to her that, considering their mutual position toward John Fortescue in the impending litigation, this mention of him was hardly appropriate. Somehow she was definitely aware of an intention here. She recognized the address which had thus innocuously thrown him into the conversation, and she felt instinctively that more was to come. She deprecated it. She would have avoided it if she could. She had a vague idea of trying to draw some one else into the conversation, but a glance at the other members of the party demonstrated how futile such an effort would be. Mr. Ridgeway was assisting Mrs. Kirby, in the midst of whispered excitement, to land a fish. Beyond these bulky old people could be seen Mrs. Ridgeway’s broad shoulders in a state of abnormal activity, as she animatedly wound and unwound a snarl of fish-line. At the other end of the boat was Marcia, listening to Horace Percy, and now and then turning to appeal to Estwicke, whose evident absorption in their talk--although he was saying little--as well as the distance, precluded Antoinette’s hope of appropriately claiming his attention.

Brennett’s low voice, subdued in deference to the requirements of the anglers, and inaudible except to her, diverted her from her indefinite, hazy project.

“Did you ever meet Mr. Fortescue?” he asked; “but no; you must have been too young. I remember now that he said he has not been to New Orleans before for many years.”

“I have never met him,” she replied gravely.

“You have missed something,” he said, with a half suppressed, sardonic laugh. “A man with the world in a sling--like Fortescue--is worth knowing. He goes everywhere, he sees everything, he knows everybody. The interest of his debts brings him a handsome income. The rights of other people are nullified, so far as he is concerned, by a self-arrogated prerogative that is almost royal. And he considers himself a king--a king among fools, and levies a heavy tribute, as I know to my cost. And that reminds me,” he added, turning to her suddenly, “that you never answered my letter.”

In the momentary confusion which this outburst induced, she was at first sensible only of the rudeness and bad taste which it involved, and she appreciated keenly the very evident fact that Maurice Brennett had been bred to know how reprehensible rudeness and bad taste are. The next instant the nebulous suspicions afloat in her mind--the suspicions which the lawyers’ letter and Brennett’s had failed to disperse--suddenly crystallized. There was no adequate reason for it, but all at once she believed that the man calling himself Fortescue was an impostor, and that the locket, with that name in it, which she had found in an empty grave on the battle-field, belonged to a soldier long ago dead. And here was the impostor’s chosen coadjutor! This, and this only, would give him a motive to weigh her words; this, and this only, would set him to watch her face. She felt sure that for some reason, some unconjecturable reason, she personally had become important to the success of their scheme. There was something he wanted to find out from her; she was to be their unconscious ally against her own interests. She began to try to remember what she had said, and what it might mean to him. But she could not think,--a chilly trepidation was overpowering her,--vague, unreasonable; she only knew that she feared him.

“I was sorry to trouble you with a letter on business,” he continued. “And I am aware that among the important absorptions of a young lady’s correspondence such dull matters must wait. But I have at length begun to despair of my turn.”

“My lawyer will give you an answer,” she replied tremulously.

She hardly noticed that they had quitted the shade of the Coteatoy Bluffs, and were pulling steadily up the stream toward a shelving bank, where the party proposed to take lunch. The continuous chatter, in the usual tone of voice now, of the other occupants of the boat fell unheeded upon her ears. As she mentally canvassed the situation, she was mechanically drawing her black gloves back and forth in her soft, white hands, and now and then toying nervously with the buttons. This sign of agitation did not escape his attention as he sat beside her, his hat drawn down over his brow to shield his eyes from the glare of the sunlight and its reflection on the water. As the skiff was run upon the bank, he stepped out and offered to assist her. She gave him her hand with, he fancied, some slight reluctance. He felt that it trembled and was cold. “She is nervous and timorous beyond the natural timidity of her sex, and somehow or other she is afraid of _me_,” he said to himself, surprised.

The way was stony and rough; here and there the roots of a tree protruded. In one of these Antoinette caught her foot and almost fell. Brennett and Estwicke each offered his arm at the same moment, but she affected not to see Brennett and accepted Estwicke’s proffer. Only once she spoke to him.

“Take me to Mrs. Kirby,” she said. “I think she has a vinaigrette, and I’ve signalized the occasion by getting up a headache.”

“Perhaps it is the effect of the sun,” said Estwicke. “Suppose you rest here in the shade while I go for the vinaigrette.”

“No--no--I’ll go with you,” she insisted eagerly.

As they walked on together she was silent, and Estwicke, too, seemed abstracted. But the influence of his familiar presence reassured her to some degree. The soft green shadows were grateful after the glare on the river; a bird was singing somewhere; the wind stirred. She was among her friends--she let her hand rest heavily on Estwicke’s arm as they strolled slowly along beneath the overhanging boughs--why should she entertain a fear so vague that she could not put it into words? If all that she suspected were true, who could be endangered but Brennett and his accomplice? It was only necessary to be cautious so that no money might be lost by their finesse.

She recovered her composure more easily from a certain self-gratulation which she began to experience just now. How fortunate it was, she thought, that she had not written again to Temple Meredith and possibly influenced him to unwise and premature action. Perhaps he, too, had detected something abnormal in the circumstances surrounding these two men, and intended to speak only when he had merged his suspicions in certainty. She resolved that she would not write again--she would not hamper him with an insistent letter at a juncture like this. As the facts gradually developed they seemed more and more to justify caution, and certainly this demonstration ought to convince her that it was not she who had suffered by the delay. She would wait patiently, and Maurice Brennett might wait also.

They presently overtook Mrs. Kirby, and when Antoinette made known her wants the old lady offered the vinaigrette with disconnected exclamations of sympathy. She seemed to specially deprecate this seizure. “Try to shake it off, my dear,” she said, in an earnest aside. “You won’t be able to talk to Mr. Brennett. I was _so_ glad he came--yes. Horace Percy says he is such an agreeable, intellectual man--and you are so fond of books! And we have so little company in the country for you.”

Mrs. Kirby was of opinion that men are born into this world for the single purpose of falling willing victims to the fascinations of young ladies. It really was a pity that Antoinette’s headache should interfere with her opportunity of enslaving so agreeable and intellectual a victim, especially as dear Antoinette--such a sweet girl, too--was not usually interesting to gentlemen. Captain Estwicke had evidently not been particularly attracted, and Mr. Travis had come no more. But already Mr. Brennett seemed greatly impressed. In the boat she had noticed how deeply he was absorbed in the conversation.

“Oh, it’s a fearful bore to talk to him,” cried Antoinette fervently.

Mrs. Kirby looked at her in disappointment and grave reprobation. Here was all the material for a charming romance, except the good-will of the lady.

Still, when Brennett joined them, Mrs. Kirby hopefully welcomed him; more than once afterward she observed that, as he half-reclined on the grass near them, lazily supporting himself on one elbow, he cast a swift glance of covert attention upon the young girl. It augured a deepening interest, and was an infinite accession to the sentimental old lady’s satisfaction. How should she divine that he was only saying to himself, again and again--“Reticent and cautious--extremely timid and proud--and what can I make of this?”

He sought to renew his conversation with her, and Mrs. Kirby would have been very glad to give him a clear field. But Antoinette was so monosyllabic and absent-minded that, ascribing her lassitude to her headache, the old lady tried to make amends. The talk fell naturally upon mutual acquaintances in Graftenburg. Gradually she became animated and retrospective. She gave him, with great particularity, the “maiden names” of the mothers and grandmothers of his friends, and various collateral relationships fell tributary into the sweeping current of reminiscence; dates ran riot upon it, and the sails of many a memory-treasured romance spread themselves to the breeze. The graces of Maurice Brennett’s intellect were chiefly displayed in the brilliancy with which he listened. Although he bore himself thus creditably, the little matters which so engrossed Mrs. Kirby fatigued him beyond measure. Sometimes the whinnying laughter of the coltish Vayne boys broke sharply on the air, and as his eyes mechanically followed the sound, he found a momentary diversion in the spectacle presented by them and their juvenile friends--all grouped suggestively close to the hamper--the smallest, Edgar, treated now like a hero among them, and now sadly badgered, according to the ups and downs of a bigger world. It was even a relief--absurd as that might seem--to catch a few words of old Mr. Ridgeway’s eager apoplectic discourse, on a wide range of subjects intermediary between the plan of atonement and the policy of the nation, with which Estwicke, hard by, was regaled along with the sandwiches.

For Estwicke no longer remained beside Marcia, and thus assisted at the conversational triumphs of his rival--it was Percy’s habit to talk much, and much about himself, recounting glib little stories in which, without coarsely bragging, he dexterously contrived to appear always as an enviable figure. She maintained a responsive animation, and when Estwicke had strolled away to the other group her laugh still reached him. It was a very charming laugh. He did not doubt its mirthfulness. The picture was suggestive as Percy sat beside her on the bole of a great tree, fallen in a late wind-storm, the leaves still green on the boughs that clustered about them. This day was as an idyl to them, Estwicke said to himself--and as for him and his heavy heart, and his misplaced love, and his cold torpor of despair, these were merely the requisite contrasting elements in the perfect poem.

And now the sun was sinking, and the pleasure party was afloat again and speeding down the river,--past the Coteatoy Bluffs; past the National Cemetery, with its vast array of mounds marshalled about the flagstaff, with its monument in the midst, and at intervals field-pieces and piles of balls. And now past another cemetery, its ghastlier simulacrum--where no monument rises, no flag waves,--with only the splendors of the evening sky above it, and the glancing wings of the homeward bound birds. Here are the piers of the old bridge; and here is the green enamelled stretch of the battle-field. The scent of clover is on the air; the cry of quail rises from the grass.

The sky is crimson and the water is crimson, and they land in the midst of the red sunset.