For a moment he
stood staring at the straw pallets along the wall; then he spoke in a queer
voice.
"Yes, Virginia's out of it by now; Virginia's dead, you know."
"Dead!" cried Dan, and raised himself upon his cushion. The room went black
before him, and he steadied himself by clutching at Big Abel's arm. At the
instant the horrors of the battle-field, where he had seen men fall like
grass before the scythe, became as nothing to the death of this one young
girl. He thought of her living beauty, of the bright glow of her flesh, and
it seemed to him that the earth could not hide a thing so fair.
"I left her in Richmond in the spring," explained Jack, gripping himself
hard. "I was off with Stuart, you know, and I thought her mother would get
to her, but she couldn't pass the lines and then the fight came--the one at
Seven Pines and--well, she died and the child with her."
Dan's eyes grew very tender; a look crept into them which only Betty and
his mother had seen there before.
"I would have died for her if I could, Jack, you know that," he said
slowly.
Jack walked off a few paces and then came back again. "I remember the
Governor's telling me once," he went on in the same hard voice, "that if a
man only rode boldly enough at death it would always get out of the way. I
didn't believe it at the time, but, by God, it's true. Why, I've gone
straight into the enemy's lines and heard the bullets whistling in my ears,
but I've always come out whole.
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