The day was a glorious one toward the end of March, when Betty stood on
the hill above Alexandria and watched, with heavy heart, the magnificent
pageant of the embarking army. The spring was unusually early. The grass
was already a rich green carpet in the shaded lanes. Jonquils were
flaming from every walkway, the violets beginning to lift their blue
heads from their dark green leaves and the trees overhead were hanging
with tassels behind which showed the clusters of fresh buds bursting
into leaf.
The armed host covered hill and plain and stretched out in every
direction as far as the eye could reach. Four hundred ships had moved up
the river to receive them. Companies and regiments of magnificently
equipped soldiers were marching to the throb of drum and the scream of
fife. Thousands of cavalrymen, in gay uniforms, their golden yellow
shining in the sun, were dashing across a meadow at the foot of the
hill. The long lines of infantry stretched from the hills through the
streets of Alexandria down to the water's edge. Everywhere the
regimental bands were playing martial music.
Somewhere among those marching, cheering, laughing, shouting thousands
was the man she loved, leaving without a word.
An awkward private soldier passed with his arm around his sweetheart.
Her eyes were red and she leaned close.
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