“Which means,” said Dick, his alert mind interpreting at once, “that our generals don't know what to do. Why is it that they always seem paralyzed when they get in front of Stonewall Jackson? He's only a man like the rest of them!” He spoke with perfect freedom in the presence of Sergeant Whitley, knowing that he would repeat nothing. “A man, yes,” said Warner, in his precise manner, “but not exactly like the others. He seems to have more of the lightning flash about him. What a pity such a leader should be on the wrong side! Perhaps we'll have his equal in time.” “Is Jackson's army just sitting still?” asked Dick. “So far as scouts can gather, an' I've been one of them,” replied Sergeant Whitley, “it seems to be just campin'. But I wish I knew which way it was goin' to jump. I don't trust Jackson when he seems to be nappin'.” But the good sergeant's doubts were to remain for two days at least. The two armies sat still, only two miles apart, and sentinels, as was common throughout the great war, became friendly with one another. Often they met in the woods and exchanged news and abundant criticism of generals. At last there was a truce to bury the dead who still lay upon the sanguinary field of Cedar Run. Dick was in charge of one of these burial parties, and toward the close of the day he saw a familiar figure, also in command of a burial party, although it was in a gray uniform. His heart began to thump, and he uttered a cry of joy. The unexpected, but not the unnatural, had happened. “Oh, Harry! Harry!” he shouted. The strong young figure in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Southern army turned in surprise at the sound of a familiar voice, and stood, staring. “Dick! Dick Mason!” he cried. Then the two sprang forward and grasped the hands of each other. There was no display of emotion--they were of the stern American stock, taught not to show its feelings--but their eyes showed their gladness. “Harry,” said Dick, “I knew that you had been with Jackson, but I had no way of knowing until a moment ago that you were yet alive.” “Nor I you, Dick. I thought you were in the west.” “I was, but after Shiloh, some of us came east to help. It seemed after the Seven Days that we were needed more here than in the west.” “You never said truer words, Dick. They'll need you and many more thousands like you. Why, Dick, we're not led here by a man, we're led by a thunderbolt. I'm on his staff, I see him every day. He talks to me, and I talk to him. I tell you, Dick, it's a wonderful thing to serve such a genius. You can't beat him! His kind appears only a few times in the ages. He always knows what's to be done and he does it. Even if your generals knew what ought to be done, most likely they'd do something else.” Harry's face glowed with enthusiasm as he spoke of his hero, and Dick, looking at him, shook his head sadly.