And so the friends parted—each going opposite ways—Major O’Neale and his command towards the ridge, and Colonel Rosenthal and his orderlies towards W. The colonel with his attendants rode on a mile or two, and then, as the sun was sinking to his setting, they entered an arm of the forest. “After all, I doubt whether we shall reach W. before dark. We must be still twenty-five miles off,” remarked Colonel Rosenthal. “Sir, we are thirty,” answered Wing. “These Virginia miles are certainly the longest I ever travelled,” laughed Colonel Rosenthal. They went on, their path becoming narrower and more obstructed as they penetrated farther and farther into the depths of the forest. Sunset faded into twilight and twilight deepened into night. And the road became so narrow and obstructed that they had to ride in single file—Wing going before, Colonel Rosenthal riding in the middle and Hay bringing up the rear. So they proceeded slowly and silently for some distance, until at length Colonel Rosenthal drawing rein, called to his advance guard: “Wing!” “Yes, sir.” “Fall behind, my boy! If we are to have the honor of meeting Major Monck, or any of his men, I would prefer to be ‘to the fore’ to welcome them. The young orderly obeyed promptly, though unwillingly enough, for he would have preferred to make of his own person a shield and breastplate to guard his colonel’s precious life. “I say, Wing,” whispered young Hay, as once more they rode nearly side by side, “this is a demon of a dark road to meet the guerrillas in!” “So it is,” admitted Wing. “How far are we from W. now?” “About twenty-two miles.” “When does the moon rise, do you know?” “About nine o’clock.” “And it is not more than seven now. And we have two hours of black darkness before us.” “Oh, we shall get into W. by the time the moon rises.” “And who will thank the moon for rising then? We want light now!” “Well we have light. I am sure the stars are coming out very brightly,” said Wing, encouragingly. But Hay declined to be encouraged. “Oh, yes! the stars are bright enough—what we can see of them through the upper branches of these thick cedar trees,” grumbled Hay. “Look,” said Wing, as they were passing through a fordable stream that crossed their path—“look how clearly the stars are reflected in the water under our feet! and then tell me if you do not see enough of them and if they are not bright.” “Well, I suppose our eyes are getting used to the darkness, and we can see better now, that is all,” grumbled Hay. After crossing the stream, they found the forest road a little clearer, so that Wing was enabled to ride up side by side with his colonel. “We are not more than twenty miles from W. now, sir,” said the boy, cheerfully. “Twenty Virginia miles, Wing, which means twenty-five of any other sort,” replied the colonel. “Hist! what is that?” cried Wing, in a low, breathless voice. “What?” inquired the colonel, drawing rein. “Where?” questioned Hay, riding up.