“Yes. Oliver’s in Tennessee with Cleburne. I hope you’ll dine with me to-day? Good! Now to your affair. The regiment’s going on to-morrow to Grenada with the President and General Johnston. You’d best march with us. We’re waiting now for the President—detachment’s to act as escort. He’ll be out presently. He slept here last night.” The company, whose first line had opened to include Edward, moved nearer the pillared house. Orderlies held horses before the door, aides came and went. Down the street sounded music and cheering. An officer rode before the waiting escort. “_Attention!_” “That’s Old Joe they’re cheering,” said the private next Edward. “Glad Seven Pines couldn’t kill him! They say he’s got a record for wounds—Seminole War—Mexican War—little scrimmage we’re engaged in now!—always in front, however. I was at Seven Pines. Were you?” “Yes.” “Awful fight!—only we’ve had so many awful fights since—There he is!—_General Johnston! General Johnston! General Johnston!_” Johnston appeared, spare, of medium height, with grizzled hair, mustache and imperial, riding a beautiful chestnut mare. But recently recovered from the desperate wound of Seven Pines, recently appointed to the command of the Department of the West, the bronze of the field had hardly yet ousted the pallor of illness. He rode very firmly, sitting straight and soldierly, a slight, indomitable figure, instinct with intellectual strength. He lifted his hat to the cheering lines and smiled—a very sweet, affectionate smile. It gave winsomeness to his quiet face. He was mingled Scotch and English,—somewhat stubborn, very able. Beside him rode General Pemberton, commanding the forces at Vicksburg and Grenada. The two were speaking; Edward caught Johnston’s quick, virile voice. “I believed that, apart from any right of secession, the revolution begun was justified by the maxims so often repeated by Americans, that free government is founded on the consent of the governed, and that every community strong enough to establish and maintain its independence has a right to assert it. My father fought Great Britain in defence of that principle. Patrick Henry was my mother’s uncle. Having been educated in such opinions, I naturally returned to the State of which I was a native, joined my kith and kin, the people among whom I was born, and fought—and fight—in their defence.” He reached the broad steps and dismounted. As he did so, the door of the house opened and the President, a number of men behind him, came out upon the portico. Tall and lean as an Indian, clear-cut, distinguished, theorist and idealist, patriot undoubtedly, able undoubtedly, Jefferson Davis breathed the morning air. Mississippi was his State; Beauvoir, his home, was down the country. He looked like an eagle from his eyrie.