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In the words of the writer before alluded to, if we had a bugle instead of a pen, and if we could stand out under the stars on a hushed summer night and deliver our message through its silver throat, perhaps the world that reads might be thrilled into earnest purpose more readily than when it is exhorted from a pencil point or a quill.

Patience and energy and determination will accomplish much. We cannot all be eloquent, we cannot all be learned, we cannot all wield a golden pen, but if we do as best we may that which seems to be our appointed task, our work cannot surely fail of recognition hereafter, even though our bodies, like that of Madame La Tour and so many of those others to whom reference has been made, should lie in an unmarked grave. At least all can be brave, as well becomes true soldiers in this world's struggle.

Well, it seemed that scarcely an hour had passed when again was heard that bugle sounding. Cheerily the reveille aroused the echoes from hill to hill in the morning air. Down at the fort the soldiers were up and doing, preparing each for his allotted task. The sun had come up bright and clear above the horizon, superseding the darkness and the dawn. The whole world looked brighter. The clouds which seemed to line the horizon had disappeared. Was it a providential admonition? Surely it must have been, for new hopes seemed to take the place of old doubts and fears, and new aspirations to evolve themselves out of gloom and chaos. Out of the silvery notes of that early morning bugle arose the determination that there should be no turning back from the battle, and that, buoyed and sustained by the force of the example of that noble woman, "a record should be left behind to be read and enshrined in golden characters upon the tablets of memory."