If only the shoats were safe! If only the family had gotten safely

to the swamp! But there was no way of knowing.

She stood quietly in the hall while the soldiers boiled about her,

shouting and cursing. Wade's fingers were in her skirt in a

terrified grip. She could feel his body shaking as he pressed

against her but she could not bring herself to speak reassuringly

to him. She could not bring herself to utter any word to the

Yankees, either of pleading, protest or anger. She could only

thank God that her knees still had the strength to support her,

that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. But

when a squad of bearded men came lumbering down the steps, laden

with an assortment of stolen articles and she saw Charles' sword in

the hands of one, she did cry out.

That sword was Wade's. It had been his father's and his

grandfather's sword and Scarlett had given it to the little boy on

his last birthday. They had made quite a ceremony of it and

Melanie had cried, cried with tears of pride and sorrowful memory,

and kissed him and said he must grow up to be a brave soldier like

his father and his grandfather. Wade was very proud of it and

often climbed upon the table beneath where it hung to pat it.

Scarlett could endure seeing her own possessions going out of the

house in hateful alien hands but not this--not her little boy's

pride. Wade, peering from the protection of her skirts at the

sound of her cry, found speech and courage in a mighty sob.

Stretching out one hand he cried:

"Mine!"

"You can't take that!" said Scarlett swiftly, holding out her hand

too.

"I can't, hey?" said the little soldier who held it, grinning

impudently at her. "Well, I can! It's a Rebel sword!"

"It's--it's not. It's a Mexican War sword. You can't take it.

It's my little boy's. It was his grandfather's! Oh, Captain," she

cried, turning to the sergeant, "please make him give it to me!"

The sergeant, pleased at his promotion, stepped forward.

"Lemme see thet sword, Bub," he said.

Reluctantly, the little trooper handed it to him. "It's got a

solid-gold hilt," he said.

The sergeant turned it in his hand, held the hilt up to the

sunlight to read the engraved inscription.

"'To Colonel William R. Hamilton,'" he deciphered. "'From His

Staff. For Gallantry. Buena Vista. 1847.'"

"Ho, lady," he said, "I was at Buena Vista myself."

"Indeed," said Scarlett icily.

"Was I? Thet was hot fightin', lemme tell you. I ain't seen such

hot fightin' in this war as we seen in thet one. So this sword was

this little tyke's grandaddy's?"

"Yes."

"Well, he can have it," said the sergeant, who was satisfied enough

with the jewelry and trinkets tied up in his handkerchief.

"But it's got a solid-gold hilt," insisted the little trooper.

"We'll leave her thet to remember us by," grinned the sergeant.

Scarlett took the sword, not even saying "Thank you." Why should

she thank these thieves for returning her own property to her? She

held the sword against her while the little cavalryman argued and

wrangled with the sergeant.

"By God, I'll give these damn Rebels something to remember me by,"

shouted the private finally when the sergeant, losing his good

nature, told him to go to hell and not talk back. The little man

went charging toward the back of the house and Scarlett breathed

more easily. They had said nothing about burning the house. They

hadn't told her to leave so they could fire it. Perhaps--perhaps--

The men came rambling into the hall from the upstairs and the out

of doors.

"Anything?" questioned the sergeant.

"One hog and a few chickens and ducks."

"Some corn and a few yams and beans. That wildcat we saw on the

horse must have given the alarm, all right."

"Regular Paul Revere, eh?"

"Well, there ain't much here, Sarge. You got the pickin's. Let's

move on before the whole country gets the news we're comin'."

"Didja dig under the smokehouse? They generally buries things

there."

"Ain't no smokehouse."

"Didja dig in the nigger cabins?"

"Nothin' but cotton in the cabins. We set fire to it."

For a brief instant Scarlett saw the long hot days in the cotton

field, felt again the terrible ache in her back, the raw bruised

flesh of her shoulders. All for nothing. The cotton was gone.

"You ain't got much, for a fac', have you, lady?"

"Your army has been here before," she said coolly.

"That's a fac'. We were in this neighborhood in September," said

one of the men, turning something in his hand. "I'd forgot."

Scarlett saw it was Ellen's gold thimble that he held. How often

she had seen it gleaming in and out of Ellen's fancy work. The

sight of it brought back too many hurting memories of the slender

hand which had worn it. There it lay in this stranger's calloused

dirty palm and soon it would find its way North and onto the finger

of some Yankee woman who would be proud to wear stolen things.

Ellen's thimble!

Scarlett dropped her head so the enemy could not see her cry and

the tears fell slowly down on the baby's head. Through the blur,

she saw the men moving toward the doorway, heard the sergeant

calling commands in a loud rough voice. They were going and Tara

was safe, but with the pain of Ellen's memory on her, she was

hardly glad. The sound of the banging sabers and horses' hooves

brought little relief and she stood, suddenly weak and nerveless,

as they moved off down the avenue, every man laden with stolen

goods, clothing, blankets, pictures, hens and ducks, the sow.

Then to her nostrils was borne the smell of smoke and she turned,

too weak with lessening strain, to care about the cotton. Through

the open windows of the dining room, she saw smoke drifting lazily

out of the negro cabins. There went the cotton. There went the

tax money and part of the money which was to see them through this

bitter winter. There was nothing she could do about it either,

except watch. She had seen fires in cotton before and she knew how

difficult they were to put out, even with many men laboring at it.

Thank God, the quarters were so far from the house! Thank God,

there was no wind today to carry sparks to the roof of Tara!

Suddenly she swung about, rigid as a pointer, and stared with

horror-struck eyes down the hall, down the covered passageway

toward the kitchen. There was smoke coming from the kitchen!

Somewhere between the hall and the kitchen, she laid the baby down.

Somewhere she flung off Wade's grip, slinging him against the wall.

She burst into the smoke-filled kitchen and reeled back, coughing,

her eyes streaming tears from the smoke. Again she plunged in, her

skirt held over her nose.

The room was dark, lit as it was by one small window, and so thick

with smoke that she was blinded, but she could hear the hiss and

crackle of flames. Dashing a hand across her eyes, she peered

squinting and saw thin lines of flame creeping across the kitchen

floor, toward the walls. Someone had scattered the blazing logs in

the open fireplace across the whole room and the tinder-dry pine

floor was sucking in the flames and spewing them up like water.

Back she rushed to the dining room and snatched a rag rug from the

floor, spilling two chairs with a crash.

"I'll never beat it out--never, never! Oh, God, if only there was

someone to help! Tara is gone--gone! Oh, God! This was what that

little wretch meant when he said he'd give me something to remember

him by! Oh, if I'd only let him have the sword!"

In the hallway she passed her son lying in the corner with his

sword. His eyes were closed and his face had a look of slack,

unearthly peace.

"My God! He's dead! They've frightened him to death!" she thought

in agony but she raced by him to the bucket of drinking water which

always stood in the passageway by the kitchen door.

She soused the end of the rug into the bucket and drawing a deep

breath plunged again into the smoke-filled room slamming the door

behind her. For an eternity she reeled and coughed, beating the

rug against the lines of fire that shot swiftly beyond her. Twice

her long skirt took fire and she slapped it out with her hands.

She could smell the sickening smell of her hair scorching, as it

came loose from its pins and swept about her shoulders. The flames

raced ever beyond her, toward the walls of the covered runway,

fiery snakes that writhed and leaped and, exhaustion sweeping her,

she knew that it was hopeless.

Then the door swung open and the sucking draft flung the flames

higher. It closed with a bang and, in the swirling smoke,

Scarlett, half blind, saw Melanie, stamping her feet on the flames,

beating at them with something dark and heavy. She saw her

staggering, heard her coughing, caught a lightning-flash glimpse of

her set white face and eyes narrow to slits against the smoke, saw

her small body curving back and forth as she swung her rug up and

down. For another eternity they fought and swayed, side by side,

and Scarlett could see that the lines of fire were shortening.

Then suddenly Melanie turned toward her and, with a cry, hit her

across the shoulders with all her might. Scarlett went down in a

whirlwind of smoke and darkness.

When she opened her eyes she was lying on the back porch, her head

pillowed comfortably on Melanie's lap, and the afternoon sunlight

was shining on her face. Her hands, face and shoulders smarted