“I'd go and see that inscription in the morning,” said Dick, “if I didn't have a bit of war on my hands.” “Maybe you'll have a chance later on. But I'm feeling bully after this cold bath. Dick, I came into the creek weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, one hundred and fifty pounds of human being and seventy-five pounds of dust and dirt. I'm back to one hundred and fifty now. Besides, I was fifty years old when I entered the stream, and I've returned to twenty.” “That just about describes me, too, but the colonel is whistling for us to come. Rush your jacket on and jump for your horse.” They had stayed about a half-hour at the creek, and about two o'clock in the morning Powell and May led them through a dense wood to the edge of a high hill. “There's Frankfort below you,” said May in a voice that trembled. The night was brilliant, almost like day, and they saw the little city clustered along the banks of the Kentucky which flowed, a dark ribbon of blue. Their powerful glasses brought out everything distinctly. They saw the old state house, its trees, and in the open spaces, tents standing by the dozens and scores. It was the division of Kirby Smith that occupied the town, and Bragg himself had made a triumphant entry. Dick wondered which house sheltered him. It was undoubtedly that of some prominent citizen, proud of the honor. “Isn't it the snuggest and sweetest little place you ever saw?” said May. “Lend me your glasses a minute, please, Dick.” Dick handed them to him, and May took a long look, Dick noticed that the glasses remained directed toward a house among some trees near the river. “You're looking at your home, are you not?” he asked. “I surely am. It's that cottage among the oaks. It's bigger than it looks from here. Front porch and back porch, too. You go from the back porch straight down to the river. I've swum across the Kentucky there at night many and many a time. My father and mother are sure to be there now, staying inside with the doors closed, because they're red hot for the Union. Farther up the street, the low red brick house with the iron fence around the yard is Jim Powell's home. You don't mind letting Jim have a look through the glasses, do you?” “Of course not.” The glasses were handed in turn to Powell, who, as May had done, took a long, long look. He made no comment, when he gave the glasses back to Dick, merely saying: “Thank you.” But Dick knew that Powell was deeply moved. “It may be, lads,” said Colonel Winchester, “that you will be able to enter your homes by the front doors in a day or two. Evidently the Southerners intend to make it a big day to-morrow when they inaugurate Hawes, their governor.” “A governor who's a governor only when he is surrounded by an army, won't be much of a governor,” said Pennington. “This state refused to secede, and I guess that stands.”