CHAPTER VII.
THE BATTLE.
Brightly, beautifully the Sabbath morning broke over all the hills of the Northland, covering them with floods of rosy light, burnishing the forest trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire with colors which seemed born of Paradise, so radiantly bright they looked, flashing from their lofty resting-place, and glancing off across the valleys where the fields of waving corn and summer wheat were growing. To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretches on into almost interminable space, the same July sun was shining, as quietly, as peacefully, as if in the hearts of men there burned no bitter feeling of fierce and vindictive hate,—no thirsting for each other’s blood. Oh, how calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both east, and north and w
