It was really useless, for he was insensible, and when he fell he looked like a dead man. His withered old hand and his thin gray hair and his weak aged heart could not stand much. He was totally unconscious. “We nearly went too far that time, boys.” When he came to, they were bathing his face in the brook. “Oh, yes,” he said, involuntarily, “the gold. It is as I have said—only the watch I told you of at first. I am an old man now and have no use for gold.” So they brought him back to the house. “Old woman, fork out that watch.” “I will not do it.” “You will!” They were coming towards her when the one whom they had called “old Secesh,” entered, and they stopped. “Men, for shame! For shame! Don’t dare touch that old woman! The first man who touches these old people will be shot,” he continued, raising his gun, and they went sullenly out into the yard. And when they had gone, they had taken all—the sweet potatoes in the hills, the corn, bacon, flour, the cows, cooking utensils, anything any one wanted. And “old Secesh” stayed by the aged woman’s side. “It is a shame,” he said, apologetically. “If only Grant were our commander! This isn’t the way he and Lee fight.” At intervals other soldiers came, and finding all taken, passed on. To one she looked up reproachfully, and said, as she listened to the groans of the negroes about their burning cabins. “And yet you say you are the friends of our negroes?” “We came to save the Union. Damn the niggers,” was the reply she received; and then the man continued: “You think Georgy is havin’ a bad time of it, old woman—jes’ wait till we git to Ca’liny, we’ll grease her over and burn her up. That’s where treason begun, an’, by God, that’s where it shall end!” “Yes, and old Columbia’ll be red, white and blue when we’re done,” chimed in another. At sunset the aged woman went out into the empty yards and an old negro mammy was sitting on her porch, her body swaying backward and forward, as is the custom of the race when in the deepest misery. Occasionally a low moan and the ringing of hands in silent sorrow. Then seeing her mistress approaching, she cried out: “Mistis, what kind of folks is dese here Yankees? Dey won’ eben let de daid rest in de grabe.” “Why, Mary Ann, what is it?” “You know my little John, what was buried yistiddy? Ain’t dey done tuk him up and lef’ him on de top o’ de groun’ fer de hogs to root?” The soldiers had seen the fresh earth, and they mistook the new-made grave for hidden treasures, and “a little dead nigger was not worth reburying.” So the black mother rocked and moaned in horror and agony. And that night by the campfires not far away, a man was warming his hands and saying: “Dees tarn rebels down here tink dey haf a hard time in Georgy—jus’ wait till we strike South Ca’liny oncet. We’ll burn ’em up all to oncet already.” “Have you heard what Sherman says, Dutchy?” a soldier asked.