"There, there, dear," he heard a soft voice whisper, "don't grow despondent. Think! Even though you've fought a losing fight it has been a glorious one—and God will not forget the Stars and Bars! Remember,—you still have us—who love you to the end—and fight your battles—on our knees."
Slowly the man looked up.
"Forgive me, honey," he murmured remorsefully. "You are right—and bravest, after all. It is you—you women, who save us in the darkest hours. You—our wives—our mothers—who wage a silent battle in the lonely, broken homes. You give us love and pity—tenderness and tears—a flag of pride that turns defeat to victory. The women of the South," he cried, and Herbert Cary doffed his hat before his wife, "the crutch on which the staggering hope of Dixie leans!"
There came, then, the sound of hurrying footsteps. Once more Sally Ann rushed from the house but this time genuine danger was written plainly in her face.
"Mars' Cary! Mars' Cary! Dey's comin' dis time—sho' 'nuff!"
"How many?" Cary cried, springing for the roadway and his horse.
"Dey's comin' thu' de woods—an' Lawd Gawd, de yearth is fyar blue wid' 'em."
"Billy!" commanded Cary. "Take Lightfoot as fast as you can down to the edge of the woods. Don't worry, Hallie, they'll never catch me once I'm in the saddle."
He stooped and kissed her, then caught up Virgie for a last hug, burying his worn face in her curls. "Good-by, little one. Take good care of Mother. Good-by!"
With one last grasp his wife caught his hand. "Herbert! which way do you go?"