Phil shouldered his rifle and marched with his comrades. They passed outside the circles of wagons, and stood for a few moments on the bare plain. Afar off they saw their own mounted sentinels who watched to the westward, riding back and forth. The moon was cold, and a chill wind swept over the swells, moaning dismally. Phil shivered and was glad that he had a watch on foot in the timber. His comrades were willing to hasten with him to that shelter, and there they arranged their beats. The belt of timber was about a hundred yards wide, with a considerable undergrowth of bushes and tall weeds. They cut the hundred yards into about four equal spaces, and Phil took the quarter next to the river. He walked steadily back and forth over the twenty-five yards, and at the western end of his beat he regularly met the next sentinel, a young Mississippian named Welby, whom Phil liked. They exchanged a few words now and then, but, save their low tones, the monotonous moaning of the wind among the trees, and an occasional sigh made by the current of the river, which here flowed rather swiftly, there was no sound. On the opposite bank the trees and bushes reared themselves, a wall of dark green. The chill of the night grew, but the steady walking back and forth had increased the circulation and warmed the blood in Phil’s veins, and he did not feel it. His long sleep, too, had brought back all his strength, and he was full of courage and zeal. He had suffered a reaction after the battle, but now the second reaction came. The young victor, refreshed in mind and body, feared nothing. Neither was he lonely nor awed by the vast darkness of night in the wilderness. The words that he spoke with Welby every few minutes were enough to keep him in touch with the human race, and he really felt content with himself and the world. He had done his duty under fire, and now he was doing his duty again. He paused a little longer every time he came to the river, and forcing his mind now to note every detail, he was impressed by the change that the stream had undergone. There was a fine full moon, and the muddy torrent of the day was turned into silver, sparkling more brightly where the bubbles formed and broke. The stream, swollen doubtless by rains about its source, flowed rapidly with a slight swishing noise. Phil looked up and down it, having a straight sweep of several hundred yards either way. Now and then the silver of its surface was broken by pieces of floating debris, brought doubtless from some far point. He watched these fragments as they passed, a bough, a weed, or a stump, or the entire trunk of a tree, wrenched by a swollen current from some caving bank. He was glad that he had the watch next to the river, because it was more interesting. The river was a live thing, changing in color, and moving swiftly. Its surface, with the objects that at times swept by on it, was a panorama of varied interest.