The Mississippian drew himself up with all the dignity common to the old Confederate soldier explaining the war. "The South was never whipped, sir. We honorably surrendered, sir. We surrendered to save the country, sir, but we were never whipped." "Did you not run at Kenyon Hill?" taunted Stoneman. Langdon brought down his fist in the palm of the other hand violently. "Yes, sir; we ran at you. I ought to remember. I got my wound there. You remember that long lane--" He pulled off his hat and threw it on the floor, indicating it with one hand--"Here was the Second Alabama." The hat of the old Federal dropped on the floor opposite the hat of the Confederate. "And here the Eighth Illinois," exclaimed Stoneman. Langdon excitedly seized a diminutive bellboy passing by and planted him alongside his hat. "Stay there a moment, sonny," he cried. "You are the Fourth Virginia." The newspaper Stoneman was carrying came down opposite the startled bellboy, who was trying not to appear frightened. "This is the clump of cedars," he exclaimed. Both, in their eagerness, were bending down over their improvised battle plan, their heads close together. "And here a farmhouse beside your cedars," cried Langdon. "That's where the rebels charged us," echoed the Union man. Langdon brought down his fist again with emphatic gesture. "You bet we charged you! The Third Mississippi charged you! I charged you, sir!" Stoneman nodded. "I remember a young fool of a Johnnie reb dashing up the hill fifty yards ahead of his men, waving his sword and yelling like a wild Indian." The Southerner straightened up. "Well, where in thunderation would you expect me to be, sir?" he exclaimed. "Behind them? I got my wound there. Laid me up for three months; like to have killed me." Then a new idea struck him. "Why, Colonel, it must have been a bullet from one of your men--from your regiment, sir!" The old Northerner pushed his fingers through his hair and shook his head apologetically. "Why, Senator, I'm afraid it was," he hesitated. Langdon's eyes were big with the afterglow of a fighter discussing the mighty struggles of the past, those most precious of all the jewels in the treasure store of a soldier's memory. "Why, it might have been a bullet fired by you, sir," he cried. "It might be that you were the man who almost killed me. Why, confound you, sir, I'm glad to meet you!" Each old veteran of tragic days gone by had quite unconsciously awakened a responsive chord in the heart of the other. A Senator and a penniless old "down and outer" are very much the same in the human scale that takes note of the inside and not the outside of a man. And they fell into each other's arms then and there, for what strong fighter does not respect another of his kind?