The general took it, examined the envelope, thrust it into his belt, and said,—
“I will take charge of it.”
The sound of horses' hoofs came from the rocky roadside beyond the brook. Both men turned. A number of field officers were approaching.
“The division staff,” said the captain, in a lower voice, falling back.
They came slowly forward, a central figure on a gray horse leading here—as in history. A short, thick-set man with a grizzled beard closely cropped around an inscrutable mouth, and the serious formality of a respectable country deacon in his aspect, which even the major-generals blazon on the shoulder-strap of his loose tunic on his soldierly seat in the saddle could not entirely obliterate. He had evidently perceived the general of brigade, and quickened his horse as the latter drew up. The staff followed more leisurely, but still with some curiosity, to witness the meeting of the first general of the army with the youngest. The division general saluted, but almost instantly withdrew his leathern gauntlet, and offered his bared hand to the brigadier. The words of heroes are scant. The drawn-up detail, the waiting staff listened. This was all they heard:—
“Halleck tells me you're from California?”
“Yes, General.”
“Ah! I lived there, too, in the early days.”
“Wonderful country. Developed greatly since my time, I suppose?”
“Yes, General.”