One of the men ran down from the hill where the view was better, and announced that a large body of soldiers was approaching. I called all the others and we stood to our arms, though we were convinced that the men marching were our own. Either the British would come with a great army or not at all. The approaching troops, two hundred at least, appeared down the valley. The dust encased them like armor, and one can not tell what a soldier is by the dirt on his uniform. Whitestone took one long and critical look and then unbuttoned his coat and drew out his pipe. “What are they?” I asked. “Virginians,” he replied. “I know their stride. I’ve served with ’em. Each step they take is exactly two inches longer than ours. They got it hunting ’possums at night.” They were in loose order like men who have marched far, but their faces were eager, and they were well armed. We halted them, as our duty bade us, and asked who they were. “Re-enforcements for the Northern army,” said the captain at their head. He showed us an order from our great commander-in-chief himself. “Where is Burgoyne?” he asked as soon as I had finished the letter. “Is he still coming south?” “He is but a few miles beyond you,” I replied, “and he will come no farther south. There has been a great battle and we held him fast.” They gave a cheer, and some threw up their hats. To understand our feelings one must remember that we had been very near the edge of the ice, and more than once thought we would go over. All their weariness gone, these long-legged Southerners shouldered their rifles and marched on to join the great belt of strong arms and stout hearts that was forming around the doomed Burgoyne and his army. As they passed, Sergeant Whitestone took his pipe out of his mouth and said: “Good boys!” Which was short, but which was much for him. I watched their dusty backs as they tramped up the valley. “You seem to admire them,” said some one over my shoulder. “It is they and their fellows who will take Burgoyne, Mistress Catherine,” I replied. “They can’t stand before the British bayonet,” she said. “Sorry to dispute the word of so fair a lady,” I replied, meaning to be gallant, “but I was at the last battle.” She laughed, as if she did not think much of my words. She said no more, but watched the marching Virginians. I thought I saw a little glow as of pride come in her face. They curved around a hill and passed out of sight. “Good-by!” said Mistress Kate. “That’s all I wanted to see here.” She went back to the house and we resumed our tedious watch. Whitestone had full warrant for his seeming apathy. After the passage of the Virginians there was naught to stir us in the slightest. Though born and bred a countryman, I have never seen anything more quiet and peaceful than that afternoon, although two large armies lay but a short distance away, resting from one bloody battle and waiting for another.