Pure and sweet as the face of his own mother was hers.
Loving, unselfish, tender and thoughtful, she moved through her house
with the gentle step of a ministering angel. The knightly deference with
which the General attended her slightest wish, stirred the Boy's
imagination. He could see him standing erect, pistol in hand, in the
gray dawn of the morning on which he faced the enemy who had slandered
her. He could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp
of steel as he waited the signal of Death. He wondered what sort of
wound Dickenson's bullet had made in the General's breast. Anyhow, it
had not been fatal. His enemy lived but a few hours.
He set his lips firmly, and repeated the Tennesseean's verdict:
"Served him right, too."
The Boy left the Hermitage under the spell of Old Hickory's personality
for life. He had seen a great man.
IV
THE MONASTERY BELLS
The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick and
uneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on the
horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominican
monks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a
sea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves.
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