of them and a multitude of men in the ranks, the pride and hope of the best of homes, no tidings came back.
In unknown graves they sleep, many of them in Hollywood, willing sacrifices, offered to their country and their God.
The day after.
One whole day—it was Saturday, the 4th of July—both armies rested, as if the memories of a common American liberty and achievement forbade a disturbance of the day sacred to all. On the night of the 4th, the trains began to retire, by Cashtown and Fairfield, through the gaps of the South Mountains.
Long lines of ambulances wended their painful way in the darkness, over rocky roads, through the cold and damp of mountain passes.
The artillery followed, and then the divisions which had left so many behind.
Ewell's corps, as a rear guard, did not leave Gettysburg until the forenoon of July 5th.
The sun was shining brightly when I rode with General Ewell out of the town square, and by the Seminary, which was filled with our wounded officers an