But this chance was his bane. He lay on the bed After the arm had been lopped from him, grim and silent, Refusing importunate Death with terrible eyes. Death was a servant and Death was a sulky dog And Death crouched down by the Lord in the Lord’s own time, But he still had work to finish that Death would spoil. He would live in spite of that servant. Now and then He spoke, with the old curt justice that never once Denied himself or his foe or any other The rigid due they deserved, as he saw that due. He spoke of himself and his storm. “A successful movement. I think the most successful I ever made.” —He had heard that long yell shake like an Indian cry Through the ragged woods and seen his flags go ahead. Later on, they brought him a stately letter from Lee That said in Lee’s gracious way, “You have only lost Your left arm, I my right.” The dour mouth opened. “Better ten Jacksons should fall than one Lee,” it said