"Slightly wounded--but I am not thinking of that."
"Of what, then?"
"I remember only one thing--that this man might have buried his sword
in my heart, and did not."
An hour afterward the skirmish was over; I had explained my presence at
the house to Mohun, parted with him, promising to see him soon again;
and, mounted upon a fresh animal which Mohun presented to me from among
those captured, was once more on my way to Gettysburg.
It was hard to realize that the scenes of the night were actual
occurrences. They were more like dreams than realities.
XXIII.
GETTYSBURG.
I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.
Gettysburg!--name instinct with so many tears, with so much mourning,
with those sobs which tear their way from the human heart as the lava
makes its way from the womb of the volcano!
There are words in the world's history whose very sound is like a sigh
or a groan; places which are branded "accursed" by the moaning lips of
mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans. Shadowy figures, gigantic and
draped in mourning, seem to hover above these spots: skeleton arms with
bony fingers point to the soil beneath, crowded with graves: from the
eyes, dim and hollow, glare unutterable things: and the grin of the
fleshless lips is the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from its
cerements, and erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the
dead had arisen.
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