Lee's line of battle, stretching along
the crest of Seminary Ridge, awaits the signal for a new conflict with
a carelessness as great as on the preceding day. The infantry are
laughing, jesting, cooking their rations, and smoking their pipes. The
ragged cannoneers, with flashing eyes, smiling lips, and faces
blackened with powder, are standing in groups, or lying down around the
pieces of artillery. Near the centre of the line a gray-headed officer,
in plain uniform, and entirely unattended, has dismounted, and is
reconnoitring the Federal position through a pair of field-glasses.
It is Lee, and he is looking toward Cemetery Heights, the Mount St.
Jean of the new Waterloo--on whose slopes the immense conflict is going
to be decided.
Lee gazes for some moments through his glasses at the long range
bristling with bayonets. Not a muscle moves; he resembles a statue.
Then he lowers the glasses, closes them thoughtfully, and his calm
glance passes along the lines of his army. You would say that this
glance penetrates the forest; that he sees his old soldiers, gay,
unshrinking, unmoved by the reverses of Longstreet, and believing in
themselves and in him! The blood of the soldier responds to that
thought. The face of the great commander suddenly flushes. He summons a
staff officer and utters a few words in calm and measured tones.
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