“Same as ever.” “That is, like a human sphinx. Well, you can never tell from his face what he's thinking, but you can be sure that he's thinking something worth while.” “You think then I can report to him that the pursuit will not catch up to-day?” “I'm sure of it. I've talked with Ashby also about it and he says they're yet too far back. Harry, what day is this?” Harry smiled at the sudden question, but he understood how Sherburne, amid almost continuous battle, had lost sight of time. “I heard someone say it was the first of June,” he replied. “No later than that? Why, it seemed to me that it must be nearly autumn. Do you know, Harry, that on this very day, two years ago, I was up there in those mountains to the west with a jolly camping party. I was just a boy then, and now here I am an old man.” “About twenty-three, I should say.” “A good guess, but anyway I've been through enough to make me feel sixty. I promise you, Harry, that if ever I get through this war alive I'll shoot the man who tries to start another. Look at the fields! How fine and green they are! Think of all that good land being torn up by the hoofs of cavalry and the wheels of cannon!” “If you are going to be sentimental I'll leave you,” said Harry, and the action followed the word. He rode away, because he was afraid he would grow sentimental himself. The army continued its peaceful march up the valley and most of the night that followed. Harry was allowed to obtain a few hours sleep in the latter part of the night in one of the captured wagons. It was a covered wagon and he selected it because he noticed that the night, even if it was the first of June, was growing chill. But he had no time to be particular about the rest. He did not undress--he had not undressed in days--but lying between two sacks of meal with his head on a third sack he sank into a profound slumber. When Harry awoke he felt that the wagon was moving. He also heard the patter of rain on his canvas roof. It was dusky in there, but he saw in front of him the broad back of the teamster who sat on the cross seat and drove. “Hello!” exclaimed Harry, sitting up. “What's happened?” A broad red face was turned to him, and a voice issuing from a slit almost all the way across its breadth replied: “Well, if little old Rip Van Winkle hasn't waked up at last! Why, you've slept nigh on to four hours, and nobody in Stonewall Jackson's army is ever expected to sleep more'n three and that's gospel truth, as shore's my name is Sam Martin.” “But, Sam, you don't tell me what's happened!” “It's as simple as A, B, C. We're movin' ag'in, and that fine June day yestiddy that we liked so much is gone forever. The second o' June ain't one little bit like the first o' June. It's cold and it's wet. Can't you hear the rain peltin' on the canvas? Besides, the Yanks are comin' up, too. I done heard the boomin' o' cannon off there toward the rear.”