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when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"What's the name, General, of the man whose house I'm to go to?"

"Nonsense!" muttered both men, and I liked them the better.

"And the one following, almost at his side?"

I attempted an evasion. "Oh--a blanket on the ground--face covered up in it from the mosquitos--is really--"

"Gone to the Yankees at Fayette!" I moaned, and hurried back to my horse. To attempt to overtake one within those few miles would only make failure complete, and I scurried once more into the north with such a burden of alarm and anguish as I had never before known.

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