As the passes rose and the mountains, clothed in pine forest, hung over them, the soft haze of Indian summer fled, and in its place came a low, gray sky, somber and chill.

Sharp winds cut them, but the blood flowed warm and strong in their veins as they trod the upward path between the ridges.

Once more a verse of the defiant Dixie rolled and echoed through the lofty and bleak pine forest: "How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannon's ringing voices; To arms! For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie." Now on the heights the last shreds and patches of autumn were blown away by the winds of winter.

The sullen skies lowered continually.

Flakes of snow whirled into their faces, but they merely bent their heads to the storm and marched steadily onward.