"They've been sitting there an hour," whispered Langdon, "but they haven't made a single move, nor will they make one if they stay there all day. It's in my mind that neither of them sees the chessmen. Instead they see the General—they visited him this morning."
Harry did not speak to the two colonels, but turned away.
"We found the body of Bertrand yesterday," said Langdon, "and buried it just where he fell."
"I'm glad of that," said Harry.
Harry and Dalton lingered at the Chandler House with the staff to which they belonged. Three days passed and Sunday came. Jackson was sinking all the while, and that morning the doctor informed his wife that he was about to die. Pneumonia had followed the weakness from his wounds and his breathing had grown very faint. Mrs. Jackson herself told him that all hope for him was gone, and he heard the words with resignation.
After a while, as Harry learned, his mind began to wander. He spoke in disjointed sentences of the army, of his battles, of his boyhood and of his friends. This lasted into the afternoon, when he sank into unconsciousness. Then came his death, and it was much like that of Napoleon. He awoke suddenly from a deep stupor and cried out, in a clear voice:
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action! Pass the infantry to the front! Tell Major Hawks—"
He stopped, seemed to sink into a stupor again, but a little later roused suddenly from it once more, and said, in the same clear voice:
"Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees."
Then, as his eyes closed, the soul of the great Christian soldier passed into the fathomless beyond, to sit in peace with Cromwell and Washington, and in time with Lee and Grant and Thomas, who were yet to come.