Richmond was doomed. The next morning, Sunday, April 2, 1865, Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America, sat in his pew in St. Paul's Church, Richmond. The solemn service began. Soon there was a stir at the door, a rustle, a turning of heads away from the chancel, where the gray-haired rector stood. Swiftly a messenger came up the aisle. Davis rose from his knees to receive the message. The service stopped. Every eye was bent upon the leader of the Lost Cause. He put on his spectacles, opened the missive, and read it amid a breathless silence. It told him that the Cause was lost indeed. It was from Lee, who wrote: "My lines are broken in three places. Richmond must be evacuated this evening." There was no sign of feeling upon Jefferson Davis's impassive face, as he read the fateful dispatch. Without a word, without a sign, he left the church with the wife whose utter devotion had helped him bear the burden of those terrible years, during which proud hope gradually gave way to sickening fear. Davis was not of those weak men who despair. There was still a little hope in his heart, despite the tremendous blow Lee's letter had dealt him. He walked down the aisle with head as high as though he were marching to assured victory. But through the congregation there ran the whisper "Richmond is to be evacuated." A panic-stricken mob poured out of the church with faltering steps behind Jefferson Davis's firm, proud ones. Early that afternoon the Confederate Government fled. Early the next morning, Monday, April 3, 1865, Gen. Godfrey Weitzel marched his negro troops into the Confederate capital. The flag of the free floated from the dome of the Statehouse, which almost from the earliest days of the war had sheltered what was now indeed the Lost Cause. It was raised there by Lieut. Johnston L. De Peyster, a youth of eighteen, who had carried it wrapped around the pommel of his saddle for some days, hoping for the chance that now came to him. The second Union flag that was raised that day in Richmond was over Libby. The prison gates gave up their prey. The prisoners poured out, some too weak to do more than smile, others in a frenzy of joy. Major Hans Rolf, reduced by hunger to a long lath of a man, had lost none of his spirit. "Now, boys," he shouted, "three times three for the old flag!" The cheers rang out in a feeble chorus and then there rang out Han's contagious laughter. "Ha! ha!" he roared. "We're free, boys, we're free."