GERTRUDE. No! He is up again! He is on my Jack! Now, for your life, Jack, and for me! You've never failed me yet. [The cheers without now swell to full volume and are taken up by those on the stage. The horse sweeps by with GENERAL SHERIDAN.] Jack! Jack!! Jack!!! [Waving her arms as he passes. She throws up her arms and falls backward, caught by DUNN. The stream of men is reversed and surges across stage to road and on elevation, with shouts, throwing up hats, etc. The field-piece is forced up the slope with a few bold, rough movements; the artillerists are loading it, and the stream of returning fugitives is still surging by in the road as the curtain falls.
CURTAIN.
ACT IV.
SCENE. Residence of GENERAL BUCKTHORN, in Washington. Interior. Fireplace slanting upward. Small alcove. Opening to hall, with staircase beyond, and also entrance from out left. Door up stage. A wide opening, with portières to apartment. Upright piano down stage. Armchair and low stool before fireplace. Small table for tea, etc. Ottoman. Other chairs, ottomans, etc., to taste.
TIME. Afternoon.
DISCOVERED. MRS. HAVERILL, in armchair, resting her face upon her hand, and looking into the fire. EDITH is on a low stool at her side, sewing a child's garment.
EDITH. It seems hardly possible that the war is over, and that General Lee has really surrendered. [Fife and drum, without.] There is music in the streets nearly all the time, now, and everybody looks so cheerful and bright. [Distant fife and drums heard playing "Johnnie Comes Marching Home." EDITH springs up and runs up to window, looking out.] More troops returning! The old tattered battle-flag is waving in the wind, and people are running after them so merrily. [Music stops.] Every day, now, seems like a holiday. [Coming down.] The war is over. All the women ought to feel very happy, whose—whose husbands are—coming back to them.
MRS. HAVERILL. Yes, Edith; those women whose—husbands are coming back to them. [Still looking into fire.
EDITH. Oh! [Dropping upon the stool, her head upon the arm of the chair.
MRS. HAVERILL. [Resting her arm over her.] My poor little darling! Your husband will not come back.