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 the rush of charging lines more extended than his own. The Confederate advance was steady, and it was bravely met by the Union troops, who, for the first time, found themselves engaged in battle on the soil of the North, which, until then, had been virgin to the war. It was ‘a far cry’ from Richmond to Gettysburg, yet Lee was in their front, and they seemed resolved to welcome their Southern visitors ‘with bloody hands to hospitable graves.’ But the Federal flanks rested in air, and, being turned, its line was badly broken, and despite its bravely resolute defence against the well-ordered attack of the Confederate veterans, it was forced to fall back. Gordon's division was in motion at a double-quick to seize and hold the vantage ground in his front from which the opposing line had retreated, when he saw directly in his path the apparently dead body of a Union officer. He checked his horse, and then observed, from the motion of the eyes and lips, that the officer was still living. He at once dismounted, and seeing that the head of his wounded foeman was lying in a depression in the ground, placed under it a near-by knapsack. While raising him at the shoulders for that purpose, he saw that the blood was trickling from a bullet-hole in the back, and then knew that the officer had been shot through the breast. He then gave him a drink from a flask of brandy and water, and as he revived, said, bending over him: ‘I am very sorry to see you in this condition. I am General Gordon. Please tell me who you are. I wish to aid you all I can.’ The answer came in feeble tones: ‘Thank you, General. I am Brigadier-General Barlow, of New York. You can do nothing more for me; I am dying.’ Then, after a pause, he said: ‘Yes, you can; my wife is at the headquarters of General Meade. If you survive the battle, please let her know that I died doing my duty.’ General Gordon replied: ‘Your message, if I live, shall surely be given to your wife. Can I do nothing more for you?’ After a brief pause, General Barlow responded: ‘May God bless you. Only one thing more. Feel in the breast-pocket of my coat—the left breast—and take out a packet of letters.’ As General Gordon unbuttoned the blood-soaked coat and took out the packet, the seemingly dying soldier said: ‘Now please take out one and read it to me. They are from my wife. I wish that her words shall be the last I hear in this world.’ Resting on one knee at his side, General Gordon, in clear tones, but with tearful eyes, read the letter. It was the missive of a noble
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