And walking fifty steps, Stuart caressed the glossy neck of his mare “Lady Margaret,” who was tethered to a bough, and looked around affectionately at her master. When he returned he was humming “The dew lay on the blossom,” and following him was Sweeney--the same old Sweeney!--ever mild, courteous, almost sad, doffing his cap, saluting with simple grace, and tuning his banjo. In a moment the tent, the wooded knoll, the whole vicinity was ringing with the uproarious notes of the mirth-inspiring banjo; and Sweeney was chanting, as only that great master _could_ chant, the mighty epic of the sabreurs of Stuart:-- “If you want to have a good time Jine the cavalry, Bully Boys, hey!” The staff and couriers quickly assembled, the servants were grouped in the starlight, the horses beneath the boughs turned their intelligent heads--and leading in the uproarious chorus might have been heard the sonorous and laughing voice of Stuart. VI. STUART’S INSTINCT. The festivities were kept up until nearly midnight. Then Stuart yawned; said with a laugh, “Good morning, gentle-_men_” as was his habit when he wished to work; and the tent was soon deserted. I retired to rest, but at three in the morning felt a hand upon my shoulder. “The general is going to move, colonel, and wishes to see you,” said the orderly. I rose, made my brief toilet, and went toward Stuart’s tent where a light was shining. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay as on the preceding evening. His enormous constitution defied fatigue. All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission. “Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry,” said Stuart. The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarrassment took a step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was like the grip of a steel vice. “Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand in,” said Stuart, busily writing. “My horse artillery boys do a little of every thing--and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the bull dog, in spite of his looks!” The young officer drew back blushing more than ever at these words. His confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance. “I’ll bet he’s blushing now!” said Stuart, laughing and continuing to write with his back turned, as he spoke. “He is blushing or sighing--for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!”