"Oh, they didn't do nothin' to her, only she said she couldn't bear the sight of um; she said they acted all the time just like a parcel o' _niggers_!" There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell the doctor of that--and how _favorably we impressed them_! Supper is over. The corn dodger was far better than hard biscuit; the roasted sweet potatoes were excellent; and the lieutenant's ham a great improvement on his patriotism. The men have lain down in little groups around the house; in front, under the large trees, burns the guard fire. The guard sleep behind it, and their horses, saddled and bridled, are picketed as usual beside them. The pickets have gone out, and the sentinel moves slowly backward and forward near the gate. I walk down to speak to him. As I approach, he wheels sharply round and challenges, "Who comes there?" I give the usual answer, "Friend, with the countersign." "Advance, and give the countersign," and he points his carbine at me. I advance, and whisper the word "Roanoke." "The countersign is correct," says the sentinel; "pass on." This form of challenging is always followed at night, even though the sentinel distinctly sees, and perfectly well knows the person coming. The "countersign" is a word, usually the name of a battle; it is given to the sergeant of the guard at sunset, and he gives it to each sentinel as he posts him. The countersign is kept concealed from everybody but the commanding officer and the officers of the day and of the guard. When any person is to be sent through the lines, one of these officers may give him the countersign, and it only will enable him to pass. If I had not had the countersign, it would have been the sentinel's duty to detain me, and call for the sergeant of the guard. "Captain," says the sentinel, "I was going to call you. I think I hear a wagon coming." We listen, and its creaking grows plainer down the road. We move to one side, and the wagon draws nearer. "Shall I halt them?" says the sentinel. "No; I hear children's voices." They come on and pass close beside us; the children prattle away, and the father and mother talk of William somebody, who did something or other, and how Jane and her husband were going somewhere with the baby, but won't now for some unknown reason. They do not know that we stand close beside them, and that within a few yards is a troop of horse. If they did, the sentinel would halt them, and they would go no further to-night; but as it is, we are tolerably secure this side of the Holly Fork, and they are so manifestly ignorant of our whereabout, that I spare them the fright of being stopped by soldiers and kept from home all night. "But don't let any more pass, Waldron," I say to the sentinel, "and keep a bright look out, and call me if you hear the slightest sound." "Yes, sir." And Waldron resumes his lonely walk. I leave him, and as I approach the guard, the sergeant is rousing the next relief.