His heart went out in a sudden wave of admiration for these Southern people who could merge thus their souls and bodies into the cause of their country. The Hampton Legion was recruited, armed and equipped and led by Wade Hampton. Its private soldiers were the flower of South Carolina's society. The dress parades of this regiment of gentlemen were the admiration of the town. The carriages that hung around their maneuvers were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course. Each member of this famous legion went into Richmond with his trunks and body servant. They, too, were confident of a brief struggle. A kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. The camp was a picnic ground, and Death was only a specter of the dim unknown. Just as Socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome figure of young Preston Hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves. They caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves. He laughed and took it good naturedly. The hardier sons of the South held the attention of the keen, observing eyes with stronger interest. He knew what would become of those trunks and fine clothes. The thing he wished most to know was the quality and the temper of the average man in the Southern ranks. Socola met Dick Welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. Dick hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand. "Mr. Welford--" "Signor Socola." Dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once at ease with his frank, friendly manners. "A brave show your _Champ de Mars_, sir!" "Does look like business, doesn't it?" Dick responded with pride. "Would you like to go through the camps and see our men?" "Very much." "Come, I'll show you." Two hundred yards from the camp of the Hampton Legion they found the Louisiana Zouaves of Wheat's command, small, tough-looking men with gleaming black eyes. "Frenchmen!" Dick sneered. "They'll fight though--" "Their people in the old world have that reputation," Socola dryly remarked. Beyond them lay a regiment of fierce, be-whiskered countrymen from the lower sections of Mississippi. "Look out for those fellows," the young Southerner said serenely. "They're from old Jeff's home. You'll hear from them. Their fathers all fought in Mexico." Socola nodded. Beside the Mississippians lay a regiment of long-legged, sinewy riflemen from Arkansas. A hundred yards further they saw the quaint coon-skin caps of John B. Gordon's company from Georgia. Socola watched these lanky mountaineers with keen interest. "The Raccoon Roughs," Dick explained. "First company of Georgia volunteers. They had to march over two or three States before anybody would muster them in. They're happy as June bugs now." They passed two regiments of quiet North Carolinians. The young Northerner observed their strong, muscular bodies and earnest faces. "And these two large regiments, Mr. Welford?" Socola asked.