As sunset
approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had
accepted Mohun's invitation to spend the night with him.
As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I
recognized here a tree, there a stump--we were passing over the road
which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862,
when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular
revelation.
We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun's regiment
belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling
Mordaunt as 'one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it
was an honor to serve.'
"Well," I said, "there is a spot near here which he knows well, and
where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863."
"Ah! you know the country, then?" said Mohun.
"Perfectly well."
"What are you looking at?"
"That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there."
And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the
brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill
toward the desolate-looking mansion.
I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed
rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall--that on the window
to the right hung by a single hinge.
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