Later on the sun glared like a great ball of brass. Anon a light breeze sprung up with a breath of moisture in it.
"That's good," said the oldest soldier, taking off his cap and baring his forehead to it; "that's good. 'Twill make more bearable the rays of yonder heater."
Their bodies were refreshed and spirits hopeful in proportion. They did not converse much; seemed to be taken up with noting the country, as though comparing it with some memoranda retained in recollection only. They were evidently strangers to that locality, for they relied for direction upon milestones and the sign-posts that appeared at intersecting roads. At last, when they had passed over about ten miles, they came to an Irishman beating rock by the roadside.
The oldest of the travelers was accustomed to read the countenance, for he was bred a lawyer, and gave up a large practice in criminal courts to join the army. He observed a shrewdness in the Irishman's countenance that he thought might possibly be of service; but it was a delicate matter to get at in those times, when one might well be afraid often of the members of one's own household.
"Good morning," he finally said.
"Good morning to ye," the Irishman responded without raising his eyes from his rock pile.
"Have you heard the news?" was next asked.
"Faith, an' so much of it flies here and there, if a mon lets all of it roost, 'twill stale his pace of mind like the thaving crows stale his corn."
"What I mean is, the fight yesterday at Green River bridge. Ar'n't you glad of the drubbing our boys gave the rebels? There's many a mother's son of them lying in those green bottom lands there, that the morning's reveille will never awaken more."
The face of the youngest soldier was turned away. His eyelashes were wet, and his teeth gnawed his under lip. Once he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes, and once he looked as if the conversation had become unbearable, almost.