I said that this is the last entry I shall make here. I am not sure now but that these are the last words which I shall ever write. I take charge of a small expedition to-night, with men whom I have personally selected for the purpose; and we are to destroy the bridge above here. It must be done at once. Jackson is near there, and we expect and fear an attack from him. The work is delicate rather than difficult; but it is sufficiently dangerous for me to commend my soul to God before I start upon it. Good-by, little note-book, perhaps forever. If Tom and I return safe,――and Tom will, I am sure,――why, then, perhaps, I may tell you all about this coming night’s work; but, if not, you will be destroyed, unread; and so farewell. VIII. MIDNIGHT. “Then came a blinding flash, a deafening roar, And dissonant cries of terror and dismay; Blood trickled down the river’s reedy shore, And with the dead he lay.” A starlit sky, dead silence all around, only the river’s murmur breaking it. The moonbeams shining on the forest-path mark all the shadows with a dazzling light, bringing weird and fantastic outlines forth, where brush and hedges line the dusty road, and making the parched fields, almost destitute of vegetation, shine like burnished sheets of dead white light. And along this road came slowly, with muffled tramp, a little body of men, their dark figures darker by contrast with the gleaming barrels of their rifles, which the moonlight seemed to tinge with silvery fire. They came along so quietly, so noiselessly, now hidden from view in a curve of the road, and now appearing again. And still all was quiet. And then a little tongue of flame ran quickly and noiselessly up into the black darkness; and in a moment more all was blaze and smoke. The work was done,――the bridge was destroyed. Down in the road around the bridge the men were grouped,――the fire giving them a ruddy coloring,――a tint of blood. Two figures were especially prominent, and seemed to be directing their movements. “Well, Tom,” said Ned, “does this remind you of bonfires in the yard at Cambridge?” “Not much,” said Tom, dispiritedly. “Why, Tom, what is the matter with you?” asked Ned, anxiously. “I don’t know,” said Tom. “I feel nervous and apprehensive.” “I ought not to have let you come with me,” said Ned. “It was weak and selfish in me to consent. You are feverish and excited, Tom; and you ought to have rested.” “Just as if I was going to let you go off into danger without me!” said Tom. “I am much obliged to you for the care you take of me,” said Ned; “but you see the work has been done without any trouble. The rebs are two miles away; and this will prevent them from making a detour, and getting in our rear if we advance.” “Ned,” said Tom, “do you think that the Professor will bring my mother on to Washington with him?”