"Six now," said St. Clair. "Seven now," said Harry. "Eight now," said Happy Tom. "And seven has been passed," said Colonel Talbot. "It will surely be twelve." All were silent now, counting under their breath, and they felt a certain extraordinary solemnity as they counted. Harry knew that both armies, far up and down the river, were counting those shots, as the little group in the Moncrieffe house were counting them. Certainly there would be no hostilities on that day. "Nine," they said under their breath. "Ten!" "Eleven!" "Twelve!" Then they listened, as the echo of the twelfth Southern shot died away on the stream, and no sound came after it. Twenty-four shots had been fired, twelve by each army, conveying Christmas good wishes, and the group in the house went back to their dinner. Some glasses had been found, and there was a thimbleful of wine, enough for everyone. The black cake was cut, and at a word from Colonel Talbot all rose and drank a toast to the mothers and wives and sweethearts and sisters they had left behind them. Then the twilight thickened rapidly and the winter night came down upon them, hiding the ruined town, the blackened walls, the muddy streets and the icicles hanging from scorched timbers. Caesar Moncrieffe washed all the dishes--those left in the house had been sufficient for their purpose--wiped them carefully, and returned them to the cupboard. Then he announced that he must go. "Come now, Santa Claus," said Happy Tom, "you must stay here. You've done enough for one day. In fact, I should say that you've earned a week's rest." "I ain't no Santy Claus," said Caesar, "but I done got to git back to Massa Moncrieffe. He'll be expectin' me." "But you'll get lost in the dark. Besides, some Yankee scout may shoot the top of your head off." "You can't lose me anywhar' roun' here. 'Sides, I kin dodge them Yankees every time. On a dark night like this I could go right up the gullies and through the biggest army in the world without its seein' me." Caesar felt that he was bound to go, and all the officers in turn shook his big rough black hand. Then they saw him ride away in the darkness, armed with his pass from General Jackson, and on the lookout for any prowling Yankees who might have ventured on the right bank of the river. "Isn't it odd, Colonel," said Harry to Colonel Talbot, "that so many of our colored people regard the Yankees who are trying now to free them as enemies, while they look upon us as their best friends?" "Propinquity and association, Harry," replied Colonel Talbot, "and in the border states, at least, we have seldom been cruel to them. I hope there has been little of cruelty, too, in my own South Carolina. They are used to our ways, and they turn to us for the help that is seldom refused. The Northerner will always be a stranger to them, and an unsympathetic stranger, because there is no personal contact, none of that 'give and take' which makes men friends."