I had just left General Fitzhugh Lee, near Appomattox Court-House, and
was riding through the pines, when a sonorous voice halted me.
"Who goes there?" said the voice.
"Surry, Mordaunt!"
For I had recognized the voice of the general of cavalry. We have seen
little of him, reader, in this rapid narrative; but in all the long
hard battles from the Rapidan to this night, I had everywhere found
myself thrown in collision with the great soldier--that tried and
trusty friend of my heart. The army had saluted him on a hundred
fields. His name had become the synonym of unfaltering courage. He was
here, on the verge of surrender now, looking as calm and resolute as on
his days of victory.
"Well, old friend," said Mordaunt, grasping my hand and then leaning
upon my shoulder; "as the scriptures say, what of the night?"
"Bad, Mordaunt."
"I understand. You think the enemy's infantry is up."
"Yes."
"Then we'll have hard work; but we are used to that, Surry."
"The work is nothing. It is death only. But something worse than death
is coming Mordaunt."
"What?"
"Surrender."
Mordaunt shook his head.
"I am not going to surrender," he said. "I have sworn to one I love
more than my life--you know whom I mean, Surry--that I would come back,
or die, sword in hand; and I will keep my oath.
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