"Now get in, Jones," he said, preparing to mount his horse.
I got in.
By my side was a woman ... weeping.
Lee's guns are grumbling in all the southwest quadrant of the horizon. In the west Gregg's cavalry impedes the advance of A.P. Hill; in the south Fitzhugh Lee is pressing hard upon Buford.
The retreat continues; I hold a woman's hand in mine.
Past the middle of an autumn night, where thick forests added to the darkness fitfully relieved by the fires of hasty bivouacs, there sat, apart from cannon and bayonets and sleeping battalions, a group of three.
One was a man of years and of thought and of many virtues--at least a sage, at least a hero.
One was a woman, young and sweet and pure and devoted.