.

.

They had guards north, east, and west of us.

They had gone mad with fright; the whole land was quarantined against us; musket, flintlock, shotgun, faced us through the smoke of their burning turpentine.

I was only a little lad, but the horror of it I have never forgotten, nor my mother's terror--not for herself, for me." He lay on his side, thin hands clasped, looking not at Celia but beyond her at the dreadful scene his fancy was painting on the wall of his mother's room: "Often, at night, we heard the shots along the dead line.