There seemed to be no firing anywhere in the vicinity; nothing to be seen but dusky pine woods; and after she had advanced almost to the edge of a little clearing, and not encountering the outer line of Union pickets, she drew bridle and sat stock still in her saddle, searching in every direction with alert eyes. Nothing moved; the heated scent of the Southern pines hung heavy in the forest; in the long, dry swale-grass of the clearing, yellow butterflies were flying lazily; on a dead branch above her a huge woodpecker, with pointed, silky cap, uttered a querulous cry from moment to moment. She strained her dainty, close-set ears; no sound of man stirred in this wilderness--only the lonely bird-cry from above; only the ceaseless monotone of the pine crests stirred by some high breeze unfelt below. A forest path, apparently leading west, attracted her attention; into this she steered her horse and continued, even after her compass had warned her that the path was now running directly south. The tree-growth was younger here; thickets of laurel and holly grew in the undergrowth, and, attempting a short cut out, she became entangled. For a few minutes her horse, stung by the holly, thrashed and floundered about in the maze of tough stems; and when at last she got him free, she was on the edge of another clearing--a burned one, lying like a path of black velvet in the sun. A cabin stood at the farther edge. Three forest bridle paths ran west, east, and south from this blackened clearing. She unbuttoned her waist, drew out a map, and, flattening it on her pommel, bent above it in eager silence. And, as she sat studying her map, she became aware of a tremor in the solid earth under her horse's feet. It grew to a dull jarring vibration--nearer--nearer--nearer--and she hastily backed her horse into the depths of the laurel, sprang to the ground, and placed both gauntleted hands over her horse's nostrils. A moment later the Confederate cavalry swept through the clearing at a trot--a jaunty, gray column, riding two abreast, then falling into single file as they entered the bridle path at a canter. She watched them as they flashed by among the pines, sitting their horses beautifully, the wind lifting the broad brims of their soft hats, the sun a bar of gold across each sunburned face. There were only a hundred of them--probably some of Ashby's old riders, for they seemed strangely familiar--but it was not long before they had passed on their gay course, and the last tremor in the forest soil--the last distant rattle of sabre and carbine--died away in the forest silence. What were they doing here? She did not know. There seemed no logical reason for the presence of Stuart's troopers. For a while, awaiting their possible collision with the Union outposts, she listened, expecting the far rattle of rifles. No sound came. They must have sheered off east. So, very calmly she addressed herself to the task in hand.