Scattered over the field, sightseers followed the events of the long-vanished July days. An old man in the blue blouse of the Grand Army of the Republic toiled slowly up Little Round Top and stationed himself near them. He was muttering to himself, and so intent upon his own thoughts that he did not see them. He pointed with his hat as though demonstrating some controverted point, and shook his head, and Wayne and Joe eyed him wonderingly. The veteran’s lean figure was erect; he thrust his stick under his arm and looked down upon the battlefield, the wind playing softly in his gray hair. He turned toward Cemetery Ridge and saw the men behind him. A wild look came into his bleared eyes and he grasped Wayne’s arm, whispering: “It’s in the bugle! It’s in the bugle!” “You were a soldier in this battle?” asked Wayne, not understanding. “I was in many battles, young man. It’s the bugle that does the mischief; pluck the heart out of the bugle and drum and men won’t kill each other any more. Many a man I’ve bugled down to death.” He dropped his head upon his breast. A bird sang in the thicket below. On the heights beyond a bugle sounded, faint as though from a far-off time. The old man shrank away; then he began to speak, in the hoarse, broken voice of age, but coherently, as though reciting an oft-told tale: “We had a boy captain with beautiful brown eyes, who had left college to go into the army. That boy, with his handful of cavalry, felt bigger than old Napoleon and we were as proud of him as he was of us. Early in the war we were sent out on a scout along the Chickahominy and were going back to our brigade when we ran plump into a bunch of the enemy’s cavalry that had been out feeling our line. They were just coming up out of a ford, and it was a surprise on both sides, but our captain laughed and said: “‘The charge, trumpeter!’