shot up by those whom we've come to help. Lasley, give them a call from
the bugle. Make it low and soft though. We don't want those behind us
to hear it."

Lasley, a boy no older than Harry, rode forward a dozen yards in front
of the troop, put his bugle to his lips and blew a soft, warning call.
Harry had been stirred by the first sound of a hostile trumpet hours
before, and now this, the note of a friend, thrilled him again. He gazed
intently at the village, knowing that the pickets would be on watch,
and presently he saw men appear at the edge of the hill just in front of
the great warehouse. They were the pickets, beyond a doubt, because the
silver starshine glinted along the blades of their bayonets.

The bugler gave one more call. It was a soft and pleasing sound.
It said very plainly that the one who blew and those with him were
friends. Two men in uniform joined the pickets beside the warehouse,
and looked toward the point whence the note of the bugle came.

"Forward!" said Captain Philip Sherburne, himself leading the way,
Harry by his side. The troops, wheeling back into the road and marching
by fours in perfect order, rode straight toward the village.

"Who comes?" was the stern hail.

"A troop of Stonewall Jackson's cavalry to help you," replied Sherburne.
"You are about to be attacked by a Northern division eight hundred
strong."

"Who says so?" came the question in a tone tinged with unbelief, and
Harry knew that it was the stubborn and dogmatic McGee who spoke.