Into a slow rendition of "Lorena"--too slow for dancing, the

dancing would come later when the booths were emptied of their

wares. Scarlett felt her heart beat faster as the sweet

melancholy of the waltz came to her:

"The years creep slowly by, Lorena!

The snow is on the grass again.

The sun's far down the sky, Lorena . . ."

One-two-three, one-two-three, dip-sway--three, turn--two-three.

What a beautiful waltz! She extended her hands slightly, closed

her eyes and swayed with the sad haunting rhythm. There was

something about the tragic melody and Lorena's lost love that

mingled with her own excitement and brought a lump into her

throat.

Then, as if brought into being by the waltz music, sounds floated

in from the shadowy moonlit street below, the trample of horses'

hooves and the sound of carriage wheels, laughter on the warm

sweet air and the soft acrimony of negro voices raised in argument

over hitching places for the horses. There was confusion on the

stairs and light-hearted merriment, the mingling of girls' fresh

voices with the bass notes of their escorts, airy cries of

greeting and squeals of joy as girls recognized friends from whom

they had parted only that afternoon.

Suddenly the hall burst into life. It was full of girls, girls

who floated in butterfly bright dresses, hooped out enormously,

lace pantalets peeping from beneath; round little white shoulders

bare, and faintest traces of soft little bosoms showing above lace

flounces; lace shawls carelessly hanging from arms; fans spangled

and painted, fans of swan's-down and peacock feathers, dangling at

wrists by tiny velvet ribbons; girls with masses of golden curls

about their necks and fringed gold earbobs that tossed and danced

with their dancing curls. Laces and silks and braid and ribbons,

all blockade run, all the more precious and more proudly worn

because of it, finery flaunted with an added pride as an extra

affront to the Yankees.

Not all the flowers of the town were standing in tribute to the

leaders of the Confederacy. The smallest, the most fragrant

blossoms bedecked the girls. Tea roses tucked behind pink ears,

cape jessamine and bud roses in round little garlands over

cascades of side curls, blossoms thrust demurely into satin

sashes, flowers that before the night was over would find their

way into the breast pockets of gray uniforms as treasured

souvenirs.

There were so many uniforms in the crowd--so many uniforms on so

many men whom Scarlett knew, men she had met on hospital cots, on

the streets, at the drill ground. They were such resplendent

uniforms, brave with shining buttons and dazzling with twined gold

braid on cuffs and collars, the red and yellow and blue stripes on

the trousers, for the different branches of the service, setting

off the gray to perfection. Scarlet and gold sashes swung to and

fro, sabers glittered and banged against shining boots, spurs

rattled and jingled.

Such handsome men, thought Scarlett, with a swell of pride in her

heart, as the men called greetings, waved to friends, bent low

over the hands of elderly ladies. All of them were so young

looking, even with their sweeping yellow mustaches and full black

and brown beards, so handsome, so reckless, with their arms in

slings, with head bandages startlingly white across sun-browned

faces. Some of them were on crutches and how proud were the girls

who solicitously slowed their steps to their escorts' hopping

pace! There was one gaudy splash of color among the uniforms that

put the girls' bright finery to shame and stood out in the crowd

like a tropical bird--a Louisiana Zouave, with baggy blue and

white striped pants, cream gaiters and tight little red jacket, a

dark, grinning little monkey of a man, with his arm in a black

silk sling. He was Maybelle Merriwether's especial beau, Rene

Picard. The whole hospital must have turned out, at least

everybody who could walk, and all the men on furlough and sick

leave and all the railroad and mail service and hospital and

commissary departments between here and Macon. How pleased the

ladies would be! The hospital should make a mint of money

tonight.

There was a ruffle of drums from the street below, the tramp of

feet, the admiring cries of coachmen. A bugle blared and a bass