The men themselves were gaunt and haggard.

Privation, exposure, and hard fighting had left a bitter mark upon them.

Hunger and cold and wounds had wrestled with them, and they bore the indelible imprint of the awful conflict upon their faces.

It was greatly to their credit that, like their leader, they had not yet despaired.

A movement of some sort was evidently in preparation; arms were being looked to carefully, haversacks and pockets were being filled with the rude fare of which they had been thankful to partake as a Christmas dinner; ammunition was being prepared for transportation; those who had them were wrapping the remains of tattered blankets about them, under the straps of their guns or other equipments; and the fortunate possessors of the ragged adjuncts to shoes were putting final touches to them, with a futile hope that they would last beyond the first mile or two of the march; others were saddling and rubbing down the horses.
A welcome contribution had been made to their fare in a huge steaming bowl of hot punch, which had been sent from the farmhouse, and of which they had eagerly partaken.
"What's up now, I wonder ?" said one ragged veteran to another.
"Don't know--don't care--couldn't anything be worse than this," was the reply.
"We 've marched and fought and got beaten, and marched and fought and got beaten again, and retreated and retreated until there is nothing left of us.