“It is my husband; I am taking him home.” Nor did Helen know who the sweet sufferer was, though she heard her ask, when she left the train at Columbia, when the next train went north to Dunvegan. CHAPTER XLII General Sherman’s army was marching through Georgia. At daybreak the pillar of cloud went before him, and at night great bonfires of burning homes lit up their rearward. The strong fled at their approach, and the weak trembled and prayed. There was a day when the foragers of the victorious veterans reached the home of an old couple who lived with their few slaves in the path of the devourer. They had but returned from the burial of a little baby boy, a colored baby whose mother was the faithful old cook, Mary Ann, and whose father was a brother of the _Chronicle’s_ Joe in Charleston. They were standing under the vine-colored doorway looking at a dense smoke rising in the direction of a neighbor’s, when a squad of soldiers in blue came up. “Old woman, we are hungry. Got anything to eat?” The best the white-haired grandmother had was set before them, and when it was gone—more. At last one of them said: “Madam, you had best hide everything you have, or by this time to-morrow you will have nothing.” “Shet up, ol’ Secesh!” said another. When the men had gone, they dug little holes and hid their few treasures; a dozen knives and forks and as many spoons, and the old man took his watch and put it far up the chimney. By the time it was done, blue-coated soldiers were swarming all over the premises. “Old man, come out here!” When he followed some men into the bushes, they made merry with the grandmother. “Old woman, where is your silver?” Silence. “Where is the silver?” By this time the smoke-house was on fire and a half dozen bales of cotton were burning. The negro slaves gathered in terror. Soon the white-haired man came back, his face purple, his eyes bloodshot, his step tremulous. “Give me my watch, Mary.” “Why, Henry, it is not theirs!” “Give it. They have choked me nearly to death.” The old man staggered to his chair. They had taken him to the swamp, and bending a small sapling over the road, stretched a rope upon it and said: “Now, old man, tell where you keep your gold.” “I have no gold, gentlemen.” “Don’t lie to us. We’ve heard all that before. You might as well tell us first as last. See that rope, you know what it means.” “I have told you the truth.” The old man was thin and aged. “Swing him up, boys.” He dangled from the end of the rope, and then they let him fall. “Now, where is the gold?” He did not understand at first, then he said feebly: “The gold—oh, yes, the gold—. I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have no gold.” “Swing him up again.” The jerk on his neck well-nigh broke it, and the suffocation was almost too much. “Will you remember now where it is?” “The gold—oh, yes, gentlemen,” dazedly, “I’m sorry, but I have no gold.”. “Swing the damned rebel once more.”