“I don’t know,” said Tom, “but I aim to find out. You boys stay here with the cart, and I’ll go over to General Ward’s and ask. We got to go there anyway to get the lead.” He left his companions and made his way forward till he reached the rail fence before the dwelling house that had been pointed out to him as the headquarters of the Great American Army. A row of Lombardy poplar trees stood up tall and pointed behind the fence, and just as Tom elbowed his way to the gate, a man came out to stand before the wide front door. First there was a loud shouting, and cheers, and then a hush. The seething mass of men around Cambridge Common stood very still. The man in the doorway was not General Ward, surely, for he wore a long black gown with flowing sleeves and a square-topped cap such as Tom had never seen before, with a tassel hanging down. But two other men stood behind him in blue coats and three-cornered hats, and they were officers, right enough. However it was the black-clad man who spoke, loudly and clearly, so that as many as possible might hear. “I, Samuel Langdon, President of Harvard College, am here to assure you that the hearts of our little community go with you in your heroic venture. With you go the hopes of Massachusetts, and the future, perhaps, of our whole great country. I am here to bless your going out and your coming home. May His strength uphold you when your need is greatest, His spirit restore you when you falter, and His truth abide in you always. My sons, let us pray.” Tom whipped off his cap, bowed his head, and closed his eyes, aware that hundreds of other men were doing the same. But his throat tightened and he heard no more of President Langdon’s prayer. This was the beginning, he thought. Concord Fight hadn’t been anything to what this would be. At Concord Fight they had all come a-running, just the way men come when the word goes out that a house is afire. But this was like when a whole town got together by plan and moved out against the French or the Indians. Concord Fight had been a fight--just that--but this wouldn’t be a fight, what was coming now. It would be a battle. It would be a war. “_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_,” finished Dr. Langdon soberly. “It is sweet and fitting, my sons, to die for one’s country.” He lifted his eyes and stood silent, looking over the heads of the company, straight at the small square bell tower of a church across the way. Everyone began to talk at once, it seemed, and in the uproar Tom thrust open the gate that led to the Hastings house and crossed the lawn to the back door. Lilac trees grew close to it, and here, away from the glare of the sinking sun, the air was fragrant and cool. A young man in a trim blue coat sat at a table just inside the door.