Prophetic words, though Ephraim knew it not. The ditch in which they were had been marked by General Shields as a possible means of exit for any one lurking in the fields, and a thorough search of it had been made. This, of course, led to no result, as the boys were far away at the time; but the general’s astuteness had not ended there, and a sentry had been placed at the end of the ditch remote from the camp—that is, nearest the Confederate lines, with definite orders to shoot any one issuing out of it if he could not give a good account of himself, and that, even though he wore the Federal uniform. Sharp orders these, and liable to make any Federal skulker realise that there were other paths beside those of glory which led to the grave. Moreover, there was but slender chance that they would be disregarded, for the sentry chosen for this special duty was a grizzled sergeant, who had smelt powder in the Mexican campaign, and by reason of years of training on the frontier, was up to every dodge of those masters of deceptive strategy, the redskins. Small hope, then, that honest Ephraim, with his simple cunning, would, notwithstanding his victory over the green Captain Hopkins, be able to beat to windward of so astute a warrior as Sergeant Mason. The darkest hour which Ephraim had hinted at was at hand. And yet not quite the darkest. The ditch down which the boys were travelling intersected, as has been said, two fields—that on the right, some two hundred yards from the river; that on the left, about four hundred from the wood. These two spaces on a line with Sergeant Mason were destitute of sentries, though four hundred yards behind the sergeant, who stood expectant, but unconscious of the approach of his prey, ran a double line of pickets, right across from river to mountain. These were the outposts, and kept their watch almost cheek by jowl with Jackson’s men, not half a mile beyond. Thus the outlet of the ditch had but this solitary defender, but in placing Sergeant Mason there, General Shields had shown his wisdom; and, moreover, the alarm of the sergeant’s rifle, should he see fit to discharge it, would within five minutes bring him support from a dozen different points. Sergeant Mason stood with his rifle resting easily in the hollow of his right arm, more in the attitude of an expert backwoodsman than in that of a sentry on guard, but his keen eyes glanced continually right and left over the dim, yet not absolutely dark, meadows, or straight ahead into the black funnel that intersected them. He had been there three long hours already, and was beginning to feel a little out of temper. And when Sergeant Mason was out of temper, it boded ill for whoever should cross his path at that inauspicious season.