"Ay," said another, "but with a difference; blue led there; but gray'll come off winner here, or I'm mistaken."
Robert stood leaning upon his cane; a support which he would need for life, one empty sleeve pinned across his breast, over the scar from a deep and yet unhealed wound. The clear October sun shone down upon his form and face, upon the broad folds of the flag that waved in triumph above him, upon a country where wars and rumors of wars had ceased.
"Courage, man! what ails you?" whispered Russell, as he felt his comrade tremble; "it's a ballot in place of a bayonet, and all for the same cause; lay it down."
Robert put out his hand.
"Challenge the vote!" "Challenge the vote!" "No niggers here!" sounded from all sides.
The bit of paper which Ercildoune had placed on the window-ledge fluttered to the ground on the outer side, and, looking at Tom, Robert said quietly, "1860 or 1865?—is the war ended?"
"No!" answered Tom, taking his arm, and walking away. "No, my friend! so you and I will continue in the service."
"Not ended;—it is true! how and when will it be closed?"
"That is for the loyal people of America to decide," said Russell, as they turned their faces towards home.
How and when will it be closed? a question asked by the living and the dead,—to which America must respond.