“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave; John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave; John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave; But his soul goes marching on.” Loud, clear, and musical came the “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” chorus; and, indistinctly in the darkness, the figures of the marching company could be discerned, coming down the road in front of the lawn. The expression on Rhett Bannister’s face could not be seen, but his voice was heavy with indignation as he muttered:-- “And that same John Brown was a fanatic, a fool, and a murderer, and richly deserved his fate.” “They don’t know, father,” said Bob apologetically. “They sing it because it sounds good.” Down by the gate there was, for a moment, an ominous silence, then, full-volumed and vigorous, a new parody on “John Brown’s Body” was hurled across the darkness toward the house of the copperhead. “We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree; We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree; We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree; As we go marching on.” CHAPTER II NEWS FROM GETTYSBURG At the first line of the daring parody Rhett Bannister and his son both sprang to their feet, the one white with sudden rage, the other stricken with indignation and alarm. With one step the man reached the edge of the porch, with the next he was down on the path on his way to the gate, to give physical expression to his wrath. What would have happened in the road can only be conjectured, had not Bob’s frightened little mother run to the porch-steps and called to her husband:-- “Rhett, dear! Rhett, don’t! Don’t mind them. Come back, Rhett, dear!” The angry man stopped in his headlong passage down the walk. There had never been a time in all his married life when the pleading voice of his wife had not been sufficient to check any outburst of passion on his part. Daring and defiant to all the world beside when occasion prompted him, he had always been as tender and gentle with her as in the days of their courtship. She was down at his side now, one hand on his arm, trying to soothe his outraged feelings. “They’re mere boys, Rhett. They don’t know any better. Some day, when they’re older, they’ll regret it. And now you’ll have nothing to regret, Rhett, dear, nothing.” Up from the road came a defiant shout: “Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!” “Down with the copperheads!” But, even at the height of his rage, with the taunts and threats of his tormentors ringing in his ears, Rhett Bannister turned and took pity on his wife, and led her back to the porch with reassuring words. The unterrified boys, taking up again their line of march, turned into the crossroad on their way back to the village, singing:-- “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; Cheer up, comrades, they will come.”