. The southerners, a story of the Civil War . ance between the Peyton placeand the town was several miles. BoydPeyton was so exhausted by the scenesthrough which he had passed that hefelt it w^ould be almost impossible forhim to drag himself into the brain reeled from the tremendousstrain which he had just road swam before his dazed vis-ion. These moments alone that fol-lowed were harder to bear than thatcrucial half hour on the porch. Thenhe had the stimulus of action, the ex-citement of doing something. Now itwas just a dull plod, plod, plod, onthe white road toward th
. The southerners, a story of the Civil War . ance between the Peyton placeand the town was several miles. BoydPeyton was so exhausted by the scenesthrough which he had passed that hefelt it w^ould be almost impossible forhim to drag himself into the brain reeled from the tremendousstrain which he had just road swam before his dazed vis-ion. These moments alone that fol-lowed were harder to bear than thatcrucial half hour on the porch. Thenhe had the stimulus of action, the ex-citement of doing something. Now itwas just a dull plod, plod, plod, onthe white road toward the his way to town people passedBoyd Peyton in wagons or buggies and marvelled atthe unusual spectacle of a young man in a naval uni-form, carrying a sword^ walking with drooping headon the public road. One or two who recognized himstopped and offered him a seat. He refused thesekindly proffers, however, with a silent shake of hishead, so they were forced to pass him by. When heentered the city he found that the story of the scene 169. THE SOUTHERNERS had been repeated by those who had participated in it,or witnessed it, and he had become a marked man. He roused himself here, Hfted his head up, sum-moned his strength again, and walked boldly ran to the doors of stores as he came alongthe street and stared after him, for the most part withcurious, although sometimes with set, hard, malignantfaces; and there were women—not many, but some—who looked at him with pity. The ragamufifins ofthe streets called after him here and there, and someone threw a stone in a puddle of muddy water by whichhe happened to pass, and spattered him. Those whomhe had known intimately in days gone by avoided hisgaze, turned aside as he approached, or else resolutelygave him the cut direct by looking him full in theface and giving no sign of recognition. His was not a pleasant face to look upon sternness of repression, such mortal agony, be-neath the outward iron of hi
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