When he awoke, it was dark and silent around him. The roar of battle had ceased, and the calm of death seemed to have settled upon the scene of strife. Tom's bones still ached; but he was wonderfully refreshed by the nap he had taken. He had no idea of the time, and could not tell whether he had slept one hour or six. He was strong enough to walk now, and the first consideration was to escape from the vicinity of the rebel camps; but he had no conception of where he was, or what direction would lead him to the Federal lines. A kind Providence had watched over him thus far; had spared his life in the fury of battle; had fed him in the wilderness, like Elijah of old; and restored his wasted strength. He could only trust to Providence for guidance, and, using his best judgment in choosing the direction, he entered upon the difficult task of finding his way out of the woods. He had walked an hour or more, when, suddenly, three men sprung up in the path before him. "Halt! Who comes there?" demanded one of them. "Friend!" replied Tom; though he had a great many doubts in regard to the truth of his assertion. "Advance, friend, and give the countersign!" But the soldier boy had no countersign to give. He had fallen upon a rebel picket post, and was made a prisoner. CHAPTER XV. TOM A PRISONER. Tom could not exactly understand how he happened to be made a prisoner. He had certainly moved with extreme caution, and he wondered that he had not received some intimation of the presence of the enemy before it was too late to retreat. But, as we have before hinted, Tom was a philosopher; and he did not despair even under the present reverse of circumstances, though he was greatly disconcerted. "Who are you?" demanded one of the rebel soldiers, when they had duly possessed his body, which, however, was not a very chivalrous adventure, for the prisoner was unarmed, his gun having been thrown away by the friendly Zouave, after he had so terribly avenged his murdered companion. "I'm a soldier," replied Tom, greatly perplexed by the trials of his difficult situation. As yet he did not know whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe, for the night was cloudy and dark, and he could not see what uniform the pickets wore. "What do you belong to?" demanded the spokesman of the picket trio. "I belong to the army," answered Tom, with admirable simplicity. Our soldier boy, as the reader already knows, had been well "brought up." He had been taught to tell the truth at all times; and he did so on the present occasion, very much to the confusion, no doubt, of the rebel soldiers, who had not been brought up under the droppings of the sanctuary in a New England village. "B'long to the army--do you?" repeated Secesh, who must have thought Tom a very candid person. "Yes, sir, I belong to the army," added the prisoner.