Let them leave Atlanta at once. I want no failure
if Sherman storms the city. I will not be alive to see it."
Awed by the prophetic coolness of Valois' speech, Peyton sends for
his horse. He rides down to the town, where hundreds on hundreds
of wounded sufferers groan on every side. Thousands desperately
wait in the agony of suspense for the morrow's awful verdict. He
gallops past knots of reckless merry-makers who jest on the edge
of their graves. Henry Peyton bears the precious packet and delivers
it to an officer of the highest rank. He is on the eve of instant
departure for the sea-board. Cars and engines are crowded with the
frightened people, flying from the awful shock of Hood's impending
assault.
This solemn duty performed, the Major rejoins Colonel Valois at a
gallop. Lying on his couch, Valois' face brightens as he springs
from his rest. "It is well. I thank you," he simply says. He is
calm, even cheerful. The bonhomie of his race is manifest. "Major
Peyton," he says, pleasantly, "I would like you to remember the
matters of this evening. Should you live through this war the
South will be in wild disorder. I have referred to your kindness,
in my letter to Hardin and in a paper I have enclosed to him.
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