The end is approaching. A gloomier darkness than the night of the
last battle broods over the Virginian. With pious reverence, he
hastens to arrange the few personal matters of his chief. He knows
not the morrow. The active duties of command will soon take up
all his time. He must keep the beloved regiment together.
For, of the two or three companies left of a regiment "whose
bayonets were once a thousand," Henry Peyton is the colonel now.
A "barren honor," yet inexpressibly dear to him.
In the face of the enemy, within the lines held hard by the reorganizing
fragments of yesterday's host, the survivors bury the brave leader
who rode so long at their head. Clad in his faded gray, the colonel
lies peacefully awaiting the great Reveille.
When the sloping bayonets of the regiment glitter, for the last
time, over the ramparts their generous blood has stained in fight,
as the defeated troops move away, many a stout heart softens as
they feel they are leaving alone and to the foe the lost idol of
their rough worship.
Major Peyton preserves for the fatherless child the personal relics
of his departed friend. Before it is too late, he despatches them
to the coast, to be sent to Havana, to await Judge Hardin's orders
at the bankers'.
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