He saw a tall rectangle of light all around him; it was the door and sentries still stood there, one on each side, bayonets and buckles. He heard a low chant in the street—the rustling, husky whisper of many men singing, and singing different songs … come on, come on, come on, old man, and don’t be a fool. Gray shapes, scores of them, along the sidewalks, bunched under canopies, huddled against trees. Docile, and resting in the rain. Horses whinnied and stamped, along the street under the buckeye trees, all around the Diamond. The songs kept on, and the rain dripped, talking to itself and to this incursion. O Mollie, O Mollie it’s fo’ you Ah must roam, Ah’m Jubal Eahly’s soldier, Dixie is my—

The film of momentary rage and bafflement was washing from Orcutt’s eyes; he could see more clearly at every step, even with this night fog, rainy dusk squeezing down over the village. The Dryers’ little girl stood alone on the step in front of her grandfather’s harness shop, staring at a row of ragged men who squatted on the sidewalk before her. “Sho, I et two little gals lass night, dint I, Muley?” “You sho did. I et one myself.” The child glared with fearless incredulity. “You—didn’t—either,” she kept murmuring. “You—didn’t—either—I bet.” Orcutt went on, picking his way past the huddles of resting soldiers. A line of freight wagons, farm carts, Conestogas, ambulances, was plowing directly across the Diamond, east toward the York Pike. Then perhaps they would not be staying here, perhaps they would go within the hour.

He heard a familiar voice, but distorted by sheer rage, rising close at hand: “Mind, mind! Leggo o’ me, you damn Secesh—” A big circle of men had formed by Pock’s store. A tall man, Orcutt could look over the packed shoulders and twisting heads and see old John Burns being dragged across the sidewalk by young soldiers who held his arms pinioned against his sides. The constable was holding back with all his might, rigid as a poker, his stubborn feet scraping as the captors hauled him forward. There was all the venom of rattlesnakes in the old man’s eyes.

Someone rode rapidly against the edge of the crowd, on the opposite side; a big horse surged into the group, head drawn high. “Look out.” shrilled a voice, “it’s ol’ Jube…” Elbows, knees, gouging metal—men stepped upon Orcutt’s feet, stumbling, giving way as the rider pushed into the circle. He was saturnine, round-shouldered; his beard was a mass of stained strings. “What the God damn hell’s the matter?” he screamed.

“Gen’ral Eahly, seh … this fellow was abusin’ us—”

“Hell,” squealed Early. “He’s old enough to be yo’ grand-daddy, boys.”