It had been a night of labour and anxiety for Prescott. In the turmoil of the flight he had been forgotten by the President and all others who had the power to give him orders, and he scarcely knew what to do. It was always his intention, an intention shared by his comrades, to resist to the last, and at times he felt like joining the soldiers in their retreat up the river, whence by a circuitous journey he would rejoin General Lee; but Richmond held him. He was not willing to go while his mother and Lucia, who might need him at any moment, were there, and the pathos of the scenes around him troubled his heart. Many a woman and child did he assist in flight, and he resolved that he would stay until he saw the Northern troops coming. Then he would slip quietly away and find Lee.

He paid occasional visits to his home and always the three women were at the windows wide awake—it was not a night when one could sleep. The same awe was on their faces as they gazed at the burning buildings, the towers of fire twisted and coiled by the wind. Overhead was a sullen sky, a roof of smoke shutting out the stars, and clouds of fine ashes shifting with the wind.

"Will all the city burn, Robert?" asked his mother far toward morning.

"I do not know, mother," he replied, "but there is danger of it. I am a loyal Southerner, but I pray that the Yankees will come quickly. It seems a singular thing to say, but Richmond now needs their aid."

Lucia said little. Once, as Prescott stood outside, he saw her face framed in the window like a face in a picture, a face as pure and as earnest as that of Ruth amid the corn. He wondered why he had ever thought it possible that she could love or marry James Sefton. Alike in will and strength of mind, they were so unlike in everything else. He came nearer. The other two were at another window, intent on the fire.

"Lucia," he whispered, "if I stay here it is partly for love of you. Tell me, if you still hold anything against me, that you forgive me. I have been weak and foolish, but if so it was because I had lost something that I valued most in all the world. Again I say I was weak and foolish, but that was all; I have done nothing wrong. Oh, I was mad, but it was a momentary madness, and I love you and you alone."

She put down her hand from the window and shyly touched his hair. He seized the hand and kissed it. She hastily withdrew it, and the red arose in her cheeks, but her eyes were not unkind.

His world, the world of the old South, was still falling about him. Piece by piece it fell. The hour was far toward morning. The rumble of wagons in the streets died. All the refugees who could go were gone, but the thieves and the drunkards were still abroad. In some places men had begun to make efforts to check the fire and to save the city from total ruin, and Prescott helped them, working amid the smoke and the ashes.

The long night of terror come to an end and the broad sun flushed the heavens. Then rose again the cry: "The Yankees!" and now report and rumour were true. Northern troops were approaching, gazing curiously at this burning city which for four years had defied efforts, costing nearly a million lives, and the Mayor went forth ready to receive them and make the surrender.

Prescott and the three women followed to see. He was stained and blackened now, and he could watch in safety, slipping out afterward to join his own army. The fires still roared, and overhead the clouds of smoke still drifted. Afar sounded the low, steady beat of a drum. The vanguard of the North was entering the Southern capital, and even those fighting the fires deserted their work for awhile to look on.

Slowly the conquerors came down the street, gazing at the burning city and those of its people who remained. They themselves bore all the marks of war, their uniforms torn and muddy, their faces thin and brown, their ranks uneven. They marched mostly in silence, the people looking on and saying little. Presently they entered the Capitol grounds. A boy among the cavalry sprang from his horse and ran into the building, holding a small tightly wrapped package in his hand.

Prescott, looking up, saw the Stars and Bars come down from the dome of the Capitol; then a moment later something shot up in its place, and unfolding, spread its full length in the wind until all the stripes and stars were shining. The flag of the Union once more waved over Richmond. A cheer, not loud, broke from the Northern troops and its echo again came from the crowd.

Prescott felt something stir within him and a single tear ran down his cheek. He was not a sentimental man, but he had fought four years for the flag that was now gone forever. And yet the sight of the new flag that was the old one, too, was not wholly painful. He was aware of the feeling that it was like an old and loved friend come back again.

Then the march went on, solemn and somber. The victors showed no elation; there were no shouts, no cheers. The lean, brown men in the faded blue uniforms rarely spoke, and the watchful, anxious eyes of the officers searched everywhere. The crowd around them sank into silence, but above them and around them the flames of the burning city roared and crackled as they bit deep into the wood. Now and then there was a rumble and then a crash as a house, its supports eaten away, fell in; and at rare intervals a tremendous explosion as some magazine blew up, to be followed by a minute of intense, vivid silence, for which the roaring flames seemed only a background.

The drunken mob of the under-world shrank away at the sight of the troops, and presently relapsed, too, into a sullen silence of fear or awe. The immense cloud of smoke which had been gathering for so many hours over Richmond thickened and darkened and was cut through here and there by the towers of flame which were leaping higher and higher. Then a strong breeze sprang up, blowing off the river, and the fire reached the warehouses filled with cotton, which burned almost like gunpowder, and the conflagration gathered more volume and vigour. The wind whirled it about in vast surges and eddies. Ashes and sparks flew in showers. The light of the sun was obscured by the wide roof of smoke, but beneath there was the lurid light of the fire. The men saw the faces of each other in a crimson glow, and in such a light the mind, too, magnified and distorted the objects that the eye beheld. The victorious soldiers themselves looked with awe upon the burning city. They had felt, in no event, any desire to plunder or destroy; and now it was alike their instinct and wish to save. Regiment after regiment stacked arms on Shockoe Hill, divided into companies under the command of officers, and disappeared down the smoking street—not now fighters of battles, but fighters of fire. The Yankees had, indeed, come in time, for to them the saving of the city from entire ruin was due. All day they worked with the people who were left, among the torrents of flame and smoke, suppressing the fire in places, and in others, where they could not, taking out the household goods and heaping them in the squares. They worked, too, to an uncommon chorus. Cartridges and shells were exploding in the burning magazines, the cartridges with a steady crackle and the shells with a hiss and a scream and then a stream of light. All the time the smoke grew thicker and stung the eyes of those who toiled in its eddies.

Man gradually conquered, and night came upon a city containing acres and acres of smoking ruins, but with the fires out and a part left fit for human habitation. Then Prescott turned to go. The Harley house was swept away, and the Grayson cottage had suffered the same fate; but the inmates of both were gathered at his mother's home and he knew they were safe. The stern, military discipline of the conquerors would soon cover every corner of the city, and there would be no more drinking, no more rioting, no more fires.

His mother embraced him and wept for the first time.

"I would have you stay now," she said, "but if you will go I say nothing against it."

Lucia Catherwood gave him her hand and a look which said, "I, too, await your return."

Prescott's horse was gone, he knew not where; so he went into the country on foot in search of Lee's army, looking back now and then at the lost city under the black pall of smoke. While there, he had retained a hope that Lee would come and retake it, but he had none now. When the Stars and Bars went down on the dome of the Capitol it seemed to him that the sun of the Confederacy set with it. But still he had a vague idea of rejoining Lee and fighting to the last; just why he did not understand; but the blind instinct was in him.

He did not know where Lee had gone and he learned that the task of finding him was far easier in theory than in practice. The Northern armies seemed to be on all sides of Richmond as well as in it, to encircle it with a ring of steel; and Prescott passed night after night in the woods, hiding from the horsemen in blue who rode everywhere. He found now and then food at some lone farmhouse, and heard many reports, particularly of Sheridan, who, they said, never slept, but passed his days and nights clipping down the Southern army. Lee, they would say, was just ahead; but when Prescott reached "just ahead" the General was not there. Lee always seemed to be fleeing away before him.

Spring rushed on with soft, warm winds and an April day broke up in rain. The night was black, and Prescott, lost in the woods, seeking somewhere a shelter, heard a sound which he knew to be the rumble of a train. Hope sprang up; where there was a train there was a railroad, and a railroad meant life. He pushed on in the direction whence the sound came, cowering before the wind and the rain, and at last saw a light. It might be Yankees or it might not be Yankees, but Prescott now did not care which, intent as he was upon food and shelter.

The light led him at last to an unpainted, one-room shanty in the woods by the railroad track, a telegraph station. Prescott stared in at the window and at the lone operator, a lank youth of twenty, who started back when he saw the unshorn and ghastly face at the window. But he recovered his coolness in a moment and said:

"Come in, stranger; I guess you're a hungry Reb."

Prescott entered, and the lank youth, without a word, took down some crackers and hard cheese from a shelf.

"Eat it all," he said; "you're welcome."

Prescott ate voraciously and dried his clothing before the fire in a little stove.

The telegraph instrument on a table in a corner kept up a monotonous ticking, to which the operator paid no attention. But it was a soothing sound to Prescott, and with the food and the heat and the restful atmosphere he began to feel sleepy. The lank youth said nothing, but watched his guest languidly and apparently without curiosity.

Presently the clicking of the telegraph instrument increased in rapidity and emphasis and the operator went to the table. The rapid tick aroused Prescott from the sleep into which he was falling.

"Tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack," went the instrument. A look of interest appeared on the face of the lank youth.

"That instrument seems to be talking to you," said Prescott.

"Yes, it's saying a few words," replied the operator.

"Tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack!" went the instrument.

"It's a friend of mine farther up the line," said the boy. "Would you like to hear what he's saying?"

"If you don't mind," replied Prescott.

It was very warm in the room and he was still drowsy. The boy began in a mechanical voice as of one who reads:

"General Lee surrendered to General Grant to-day——"

"What's that?" exclaimed Prescott, springing to his feet. But the boy went on:

"General Lee surrendered to General Grant to-day at Appomattox Court House. The Army of Northern Virginia has laid down its arms and the war is over."

Prescott stood for a moment like one dazed, then staggered and fell back in his chair.

"I guess you're one of that army, mister," said the boy, hastily bringing a cup of water.

"I was," replied Prescott as he recovered himself.

He stayed all night in the hut—there was nothing now to hurry for—and the next morning the lank youth, with the same taciturn generosity, shared with him his breakfast.

Prescott turned back toward Richmond, his heart swelling with the desire for home. The sun came out bright and strong, the rain dried up, and the world was again young and beautiful; but the country remained lone and desolate, and not till nearly noon did he come in contact with human life. Then he saw a half-dozen horsemen approaching—whether Northern or Southern he did not care—it did not matter now, and he went on straight toward them.

But the foremost rider leaped down with a cry of joy and wrung his hand.

"Bob, Bob, old boy!" he said. "We did not know what had become of you and we had given you up for dead!"

It was Talbot, and Prescott returned his grasp with interest.

"Is it true—true that Lee has surrendered?" he asked, though knowing well that it was true.

Talbot's eyes became misty.

"Yes, it is all so," he replied. "I was there and I saw it. We went down to Appomattox and the Yankees came right after us—I don't know how many strong, but too strong for us. Grant would never let us alone. He was there at our heels all the time, and Sheridan kept galloping around us, lopping off every straggling regiment and making our lives miserable. When we got to Appomattox we found the Yankees were so thick that we stayed there. We couldn't move. There weren't more than fifteen thousand of us left, and we were starved and barefoot. The firing around us never stopped. Grant kept pressing and pressing. Bob, I felt then that something was going to happen."

Talbot stopped and choked, but in a moment he went on:

"Our generals had a big talk—I don't know what they said, but I know what they did. A messenger went over to Grant's army, and by and by General Grant and a lot of officers came and met General Lee and his staff, and they went into a house and talked a long time. When they came out it was all over. The Army of Northern Virginia, the victor of so many great battles, was no more. We couldn't believe it for awhile, though we knew that it must come. We hung around Marse Bob, and asked him if it was true, and he said it was. He said when a war was over it was over. He said we were beaten and we must now stop fighting. He told us all to go home and go to work. It was an undivided Union; the war had settled that and we must stick to it. General Grant had promised him that we shouldn't be harmed, and he told us to think no more of war now, but to rebuild our homes and our country. We loved Marse Bob in victory, but we love him just as much now in defeat. We crowded around him and we shook his hand and we would hardly let him go."

Talbot choked again, and it was a long time until he continued:

"General Grant did everything that he promised General Lee. He's the right sort all through—so is the Yankee army. I've got nothing against it. They never insulted us with a single word. We had our own camp and they sent us over part of their rations. We needed them badly enough; and then General Grant said that every man among us who had a horse was to take it—and we did. Here I am on mine, and I reckon you might call it a gift from the Yankee General."

The little group was silent. They had fought four years, and all had ended in defeat. Tears were wiped from more than one brown face.

"We're going to Richmond, Bob," said Talbot at last, "and I guess you are bound that way, too. You haven't any horse. Here, get up behind me."

Prescott accepted the offer, and the silent little group rode on toward Richmond. On the way there Talbot said:

"Vincent Harley is dead. He was killed at Sailor's Creek. He led a last charge and was shot through the heart. He must have died instantly, but he did not even fall from the saddle. When the charge spent its force, the reins had dropped from his hands, but he was sitting erect—stone dead. It's a coincidence, but General Markham was killed on the same day."

Prescott said nothing, but Thomas Talbot, who never remained long in the depths, soon began to show signs of returning cheerfulness. They stopped for a noon rest in a clearing, and after they ate their scanty dinner Talbot leaped upon a stump.

"Oyez! Oyez!" he cried. "Attention all! I, Thomas Talbot, do offer for sale one job lot of articles. Never before was there such an opportunity to obtain the rare and valuable at such low prices."

"What are you selling, Tom?" asked Prescott.

"Listen and learn," replied Talbot, in sonorous and solemn tones. "Gentlemen, I offer to the highest bidder and without reserve one Confederacy, somewhat soiled, battered and damaged, but surrounded by glorious associations. The former owners having no further use for it, this valuable piece of property is put upon the market. Who'll buy? Who'll buy? Come, gentlemen, bid up. You'll never have another such chance. What do I hear? What do I hear?"

"Thirty cents!" called some one.

"Thirty cents! I am bid thirty cents!" cried Talbot.

"Confederate money," added the bidder.

A laugh arose.

"Do you want me to give you this property?" asked Talbot.

But he could get no higher bid, and he descended from the stump amid laughter that bordered closely on something else.

Then they resumed their journey.