Blackford hesitated. "Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment. "I don't know; this or the Rough Riders." "Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as 'bunkies'?" "Sure!" "Thank you." The two men grasped hands. "I hope you will come back." "I'm sure to come back. Good-by." "Good-by, sir." The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. Blackford turned sharply away, flushing. VIII Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a great garden--all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going. Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother, proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his throat; nor even little Phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the