Jackson walked past the fire to a fallen tree, sat himself down and looked across to the other man. The low flame more deeply bronzed his face. His eyes looked preternaturally sunken. He sat, characteristically rigid, a figure in grey stone. There was about him a momentary air of an Indian, he looked so ruthless. If it was not that, thought Cleave, then it was that he looked fanatic. Whichever it might be, he perceived that he himself stood in arctic air. He had been liked, he knew; now he saw the mist of disfavour rise. Jackson's voice came gratingly. "Who sent you?"
"General Winder and General D. H. Hill."
"You will tell General Hill that I shall make no further attack to-night. I have other important duties to perform."
"I know what I risk," said Cleave, "and I do not risk it lightly. Have you thought of how you fell on them at Front Royal and at Winchester? Here, too, they are confused, retreating—a greater force to strike, a greater result to win, a greater service to do for the country, a greater name to make for yourself. To-morrow morning all the world may say, 'So struck Napoleon—'"
"Napoleon's confidence in his star was pagan. Only God rules."
"And the man who accepts opportunity—is he not His servant? May we not, sir, may we not make the attack?"
"No, sir; not to-night. We have marred too many Sundays—"
"It is not Sunday!"
Jackson looked across with an iron countenance. "So little the fighter knows! See, what war does! But I will keep, in part at least, the Sabbath. You may go, sir."
"General Jackson, this is Friday evening."