"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.
"I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--"
"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"
"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use."
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet when he spoke.
"It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any day."
"But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a dozen?"
"Don't you think these fellows could do it?"
Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught in his voice. He says your war will be long and bloody--"
"Yes--I know," Dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. We'll show old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond _Examiner_--"
He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:
"From mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Washington City at all and every human hazard!"
The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4. The South was marching to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. And behind each gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of Death.
As Socola left his room at the Spotswood the following night, a stranger met him at the turn of the dimly lighted corridor.