O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune!—”
Désirée turned, came up the pennyroyal bank, and sat beside him on the pine-needle carpet. Bending, he pressed his lips on her bare arm.
“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I—”
In the distance they heard the sound of axes against the trees. Breastworks and rifle-pits were in the making over there. Light curls of smoke told where were camp-fires. Not far away the creek was crossed by a wood road. Now a score of horses with three guardian men came down to the ford to drink. Somewhere a bugle sounded. Brown and black and grey, the horses pricked their ears; then, satisfied that it was not battery bugle, dropped again to the cool water. Out of the forest across Little Pumpkin-Vine came a steady, dreamy humming—voices of the Army of Tennessee, encamped here, encamped there, in this region south of the Etowah.
“I should like to die on a day like this,” said Désirée. “Just such a day—and life so strong and sweet! To touch, taste, smell, hear, see, feel, and know it all—and then to go, carrying the flavour with you!”
“With which to set up housekeeping again?”
“With which to set up housekeeping again—in a larger, better house.”
“But with old comrades?”