were on his own shore the golden trumpet sang merrily again, and they
turned the heads of their horses southward.

Harry rode deeper into the ancient wood. They might throw out scouts or
skirmishers and he had no mind to be taken. It was his belief that they
came from Romney, where a Northern army had gathered in great force and
would eventually march toward Jackson at Winchester. But whatever their
errand, here was something for him to watch, and he meant to know what
they intended.

The Northern troop, youths also, the average of their age not much more
than twenty, rode briskly along the edge of the little river, which was a
shining one for them, too, as well as Harry. They knew that no enemy in
force was near, and they did not suspect that a single horseman followed,
keeping in the edge of the woods, his eyes missing nothing that they did.

As for themselves, they were in the open now and the brilliant sunshine
quickened their blood. Some of them had been at Bull Run, but the sting
of that day was going with time. They were now in powerful force at the
head of the great Virginia valleys, and they would sweep down them with
such impact that nothing could stand before them. The trumpet sang its
mellow triumphant note again, and from across a far range of hills came
its like, a low mellow note, faint, almost an echo, but a certain reply.
It was the answer from another troop of their men who rode on a parallel
line several miles away.

The lone lad in the edge of the forest heard the distant note also,
but he gave it no heed. His eyes were always for the troop before him.
He had already learned from Stonewall Jackson that you cannot do two
things at once, but the one thing that you do you must do with all your