Crittenden

By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps";

then another and another and another still. At last, when all were

through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. This

last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. The

rest had simply given the command: "Lights out!"

Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's

life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now

something that once was dearer than life itself.

"Love, good-night."

Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another

than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his

cot--thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift

to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with

him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted,

and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on

fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be

done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back

to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered

what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his

sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa--with his mind's

eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his

heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he

had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had

come to him--awake and asleep--and it was genuine.