"And we did preserve them! The Yankees relieved us of the burden of a few unprofitable slaves. They slew the best and the bravest of our men. They took our wealth and reduced us to unimaginable poverty and hardship. But, thank God, we saved our women! We returned to them ragged, wounded, footsore, and despairing, and we found them faithful as the stars in their courses. More inspiring than 'pillows' of fire by night and of cloud by day, they led us back to hope and love and prosperity. They were the trophies of the brave which no enemy could wrest from us----" "Oh Lord! listen to him! That thar's a man talkin' up thar!" shouted an old veteran. "--and we went on shaving 'em, gentlemen! There has never been another country in the world reduced to ashes by war where the women were not forced to work shoulder to shoulder with the men afterward to reclaim her. But we treasured our women. We did the work, we kept them comely and fine. We educated them when we could not educate ourselves. We poured our wealth at their feet--and that's why they have the smallest feet in America, gentlemen, the fairest skin, the softest palms." There was a slight sniffing to be heard here among the farmers' wives, but he went on to his conclusion: "And now, my comrades, we must save them again; they are about to be dragged from the shanctity of the home, from the altar of the fireside, into the grime and dirt of publicity. There is a movement on foot to thrust the ballot, gentlemen, into their unsteady hands! My God! My God! where is your gallantry and courage? Where is your manhood that you think of giving these gentle creatures your work to do, and lose what a hundred to one Yankees could not take from you?" He looked about him with terrific scorn. "I did not think that I should ever again appear in their dear defence. I'm an old man, my glory has departed. You shee before you--you shee--before--you----" He lifted his hand to his forehead as if suddenly he was dazed, sunken into the dream of years. His knees bent, he would have fallen. Selah sprang swiftly forward, placed his arm over her shoulder, and supported him. He sank slowly into the chair she had just vacated. She made sure swiftly from long experience that he had only reached the coma of a familiar state. Then she went back to the front of the stage and began to speak. The Colonel looked up vaguely, saw her standing there as one remembers a vision in a dream. "That's it, Selah, my love! Give 'em 'Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night,'" he murmured, as his head sank upon his breast.