It was over, the great cavalry review. The day descended; the troops drew off toward hidden bivouacs. Lee and Longstreet and Stuart rode together awhile, under the sunset sky. Staff, behind them, understood that great things were being spoken of—marches toward Maryland, perhaps, or a watch on Joe Hooker, or the, of late, vastly increased efficiency of the enemy’s cavalry. Staff had its own opinion as to this. “They always could fight, and now they’ve learned to ride! Pity!” “I don’t call it a pity. I’d rather meet them equal. Pleasanton’s all right.” “We’ve had a beautiful review and we’ve also made a lot of noise, to say nothing of a dust cloud like the Seven Days come back. Double pickets to-night, I should say. We aren’t a million miles from Hooker.” “That’s true enough.—_Halt!_ General Lee’s going back.” Under a great flush of sunset coral and gold above the trees, Lee and his cavalry leader parted. The one smiled, the other laughed, they touched gauntleted hands, and Lee turned grey Traveller. Longstreet joined him and they rode away, staff falling in behind, out of the June-time forest, back to the encampment at Culpeper. A moment and their figures were drowned in the violet evening. Jeb Stuart, singing, plunged with his staff into the woods. His headquarters were at Brandy Station. The starry night found this village filled with troops. They bivouacked, moreover, all about it, on Fleetwood Hill and toward St. James Church. There were outposts, too, toward the Rappahannock; a considerable troop tethered its horses on the bank above Beverly Ford. Others went toward Providence Church and Norman’s Ford, others toward Kelly’s. Eight thousand horse bivouacked beneath the stars. Camp-fire saw camp-fire, and the rustling night wind and the murmuring streams heard other voices than their own, heard voices full of cheer. The horse artillery prepared to spend the night in a grassy field beside the Beverly Ford road. In front was a piece of thick woods. The battery horses, tethered in a long line, began to crop the grass. The guns, each known and loved like an old familiar, were parked. The men gathered dry wood for their supper fires, fried their bacon, baked their corn-meal pones, brewed their “coffee”—chiccory, rye, or sweet potato, as the case might be. There was much low laughter and crooning, and presently clouds of tobacco smoke. Beautiful review—beautiful day—rest to-night—march to-morrow—Jeb lovely as ever—going to end this blessed war—pile on the pine knots so we can read the letters from home!...