With the Venables at “Mount Rest” Gutzon passed three pleasant days. He got up in the early morning to see whether or not the sun’s first rays touched the cliff. He watched the light traveling all day and studied the angles and shadows of its fall. On the night of the third day he watched the mountain with a wisp of pale moon hovering over it. He seemed to see a gray-uniformed host stealing quietly over the upper edge of the great wall, moving northward across its face. That evening he pointed out to Sam Venable what he had seen. Near the top and sweeping downward, the Confederate armies. Above, the artillery, appearing at the summit as if coming from beyond. Dropping down and over to the left across the cliff, a procession of men, guns, horses. Left of these, the cavalry in full forward motion. And in the center, where the wall bulged outward, was a colossal group of the principal chieftains of the Confederacy--Lee, Stonewall Jackson and President Jefferson Davis. Swinging away to the left were column upon column of Confederate infantry. Sam listened and smoked vigorously. Then, after a long study he made his comment. “I suppose,” he said, “it will take an awful lot of rock.” Gutzon didn’t smile. “A strip at least two hundred feet wide,” he said. “The whole of the steep side, clear to the top for the central group alone.” “That all?” asked Venable sarcastically. “No, I’ll need the sky, too. Can’t have any buildings or chimneys sticking up from behind.” Sam laughed. “All right,” he said, “you can have it.” The next day Gutzon went back to Atlanta and told Mrs. Plane and her committee of his additions to their dream. “We haven’t got enough money!” declared the practical Mrs. Plane. But Borglum talked to them. Enough people North and South would be willing to help, he said. He would go through the country and solicit funds. People would come from all over the world to pay tribute to these heroes, he said, to pay tribute to the ones who had died for the right as they had been given to see the right. It would be a shrine for Americans who had fought, without hope, without money, without arms, for the things they believed in. It would be the greatest memorial ever conceived. That’s what Gutzon Borglum believed, and what he said, and the women agreed with him. There was to be a national convention of the U.D.C. in San Francisco in October 1915 and Mrs. Plane and Mrs. Walter Lamar, president of the Georgia Division, called on Gutzon to attend and tell the delegates about what he intended to do and why. Gutzon went, marched the warriors down the mountainside as he had for Sam Venable, and produced the same results. It was the speech of his life.