Mrs. S. My garden, sir.
Evans. Men, I believe they are hiding some one here. What's in that garden?
Mrs. S. The memory of my blessed dead.
Evans. What!
Mrs. S. My son, sir.
Evans. Where is he? (Quickly).
Mrs. S. Beyond your reach. His grave is in the garden.
Evans (in an uneasy way steps back). I—I beg your pardon, mam!
[Enter from the house all the soldiers. They carry a large cedar chest. Others have china, pictures, rugs, some furniture and ornaments. These they throw roughly on the ground. Nearly all are eating. They throw the chest lid back and lift out the silver, quarreling loudly for its possession.