“It ain’t a hundred yards away where he lays,” said Black Smith. “He went counter to the mountain people, an’ see what become of him! Will you give me the paper?” Elizabeth bent her head. John Baring had ruined the lives of many of his kin; he should not destroy Herbert’s. Again she determined that she would give them the paper and provide so that the old woman should have the decent burial that she craved, and then they would obey the advice of friend and foe and go away. That is, they would go, if it were not too late. She did not believe that they would starve Herbert, or that he sat crying for her. But he might be ill. “I will--” began Elizabeth. Then, suddenly, Elizabeth stopped. The arching trees seemed to contract into the ceiling of a low room, she smelled not the fresh, living, woodsy odors about her, but the odor of dry wood, of old beams and broad ceiling-boards, dried for fifty years under a roof. She saw herself rising on tiptoe to read, and she heard Herbert’s voice. “I have built this house the best I know. God bless those that go in and out.” For a moment Elizabeth saw more than the writing, she seemed to look into a pair of sad and steady eyes. Once more in a rush of confused emotions a wave of semi-unconsciousness passed over her and she found herself pressing her hands again hard against the rough bark of the old tree. Her eyes, staring at Black Smith, looked wild. She saw a scene of which she often dreamed, the old house surrounded by armed and mounted men. She heard the creak of wagons, the steady, rhythmic beat of marching troops, the cries of the wounded, already being carried to the rear, the throng and press which filled the steep and narrow road. She saw the clear blue moonlight over the wide plain, and the flaring torchlight at hand; she seemed to see John Baring standing in his doorway, looking at it all, hearing a question, a demand which could not be put off. It may have been that his wife stood beside him with her baby in her arms. “I have built this house the best I know.” He had intended to live here long years, to die here decades from now--perhaps that intention went through his mind. But he had not been given a long time for dreaming. He must decide at once. There was probably a heavy hand on his shoulder, a harsh voice at his ear. “Here is a horse for you! We must know another way to Gettysburg and that quickly!” Then Elizabeth awoke. This was not the time for dreaming, for trying to reconstruct the mental processes of John Baring! “I cannot think,” she said to herself. “There is something in the back of my mind, but I cannot get at it!” “I’ll give you one more minute, missy, to decide what you’re goin’ to do.” Black Smith drew from his pocket a giant silver watch and looked at it.