To live an’ die in Dixie!
Away, away, away down South in Dixie;
Away, away, away down South in Dixie—”
Two hundred men sang it loudly. Bearded, gaunt, unkempt, large-eyed, in unsoldierly rags, they stood and sang Dixie—sang it fiercely, with all their pent power, with all their wild longing. It rolled and echoed through the building; it seemed to beat with violence at the walls, so that it might get out beneath the stars. It died at last. The prisoners in Division 3 turned again to the chairman. “Gentlemen, the editors of The Pen crave your indulgence. The latest news by grapevine and underground is just in! The presses are working overtime in order that presently it may be served to you hot—”
“The War is over!”
“We are to be exchanged!”
“England has declared—”
“We have met the enemy and he is ours!”
“We have received a consignment of tobacco.”
“The rats have cried Hold, enough! A signal victory has been achieved—”