Of this journey it is unnecessary for me to speak in the present volume. Some curious adventures occurred to me, in the valley, near Millwood, and I made the acquaintance of St. Leger Landon, of “Bizarre,” one of the bravest and truest gentlemen I have ever known. The adventures alluded to, and some events in the strange history of my friend, Captain Landon, are embraced in a separate memoir, to which I have given the fanciful title, _Hilt to Hilt, or Days and Nights on the Banks of the Shenandoah_. I remained in the valley from the first to the eighteenth of September, when I set out on my return to Petersburg, little thinking that, on the very next day, General Early would be attacked on the Opequon, driven from Winchester, and forced to retreat up the valley, in spite of fighting which was never surpassed. I had received some rough handling in a cavalry combat near the Old Chapel, beyond Millwood, and my ride back was tedious. But at last I reached Richmond, and made preparations to set out at once for the army. On the evening before my departure, I went to visit the grave of Stuart at Hollywood, on the beautiful hill above the falls, west of the city. As I approached the lonely spot, where the great cavalier was lying beside his little Flora, of whom he had often spoken to me with tears, a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. With head bent down, and chin resting on my breast, I drew near the grassy mound over which waved the autumn foliage, tinted with yellow and crimson--and in these few moments, all the splendid career of Stuart passed before me, as on that day when I rode with him toward the fatal field of Yellow Tavern. I remembered all his hard combats, his glorious encounters, his victories over such odds as vindicated his claim to a descent from the dashing Rupert, and ranked him with the most famous leaders of cavalry in all history. I recalled the courage, the joy, the gay laughter of the great soldier--the blue eyes that flashed so--the sonorous voice singing the merry songs. I remembered all the occasions when he had led his men in the charge--how he had wept for Jackson, bowed his head above the cold face of Pelham--how he had met the torrent unmoved, shrunk from nothing in his path, fallen to save the Virginia capital, and died murmuring “God’s will be done!”--I remembered all that, and with something in my throat that seemed choking me, drew near the quiet mound, beneath which rested such a career, and so much glory. The birds were twittering and singing, the foliage waving gently--I raised my head--when suddenly I became aware that a solitary mourner was bending over the grave. He was an officer in gray uniform. He held a flower in his hand, which he dropped upon the grave, uttering a low sob as he did so. At the same moment he turned round, and I recognized the great partisan, Colonel Mosby.[1] [Footnote 1: Real.] XIII. THE CEDARS.