That was his dream, and to-day he came back footsore, penniless, and in a dead man's clothes—a beggar as he had been at his first home-coming, when he had stood panting on the threshold and clutched his little bundle in his arms.
Yet his pulses stirred, and he turned cheerfully to the negro at his side.
“Do you see it, Big Abel? Tell me when you see it.”
“Dar's de cattle pastur',” cried Big Abel, “en dey's been a-fittin' dar—des look.”
“It must have been a skirmish,” replied Dan, glancing down the slope. “The wall is all down, and see here,” his foot struck on something hard and he stooped and picked up a horse's skull. “I dare say a squad of cavalry met Mosby's rangers,” he added. “It looks as if they'd had a little frolic.”
He threw the skull into the pasture, and followed Big Abel, who was hurrying along the road.
“We're moughty near dar,” cried the negro, breaking into a run. “Des wait twel we pass de aspens, Marse Dan, des wait twel we pass de aspens, den we'll be right dar, suh.”
Then, as Dan reached him, the aspens were passed, and where Chericoke had stood they found a heap of ashes.
At their feet lay the relics of a hot skirmish, and the old elms were perforated with rifle balls, but for these things Dan had neither eyes nor thoughts. He was standing before the place that he called home, and where the hospitable doors had opened he found only a cold mound of charred and crumbled bricks.
For an instant the scene went black before his eyes, and as he staggered forward, Big Abel caught his arm.