The stillness of the camp only accentuates his slow nonchalant step on the path. In his imagination the air seems to be filled with invisible spirits--the spirits of the night that have come forth. First he is conscious of only a few timid ones here and there, but as the hours wear on they seem to grow bolder and bolder, filling the surrounding atmosphere and whispering in his ear their ghostly messages. Each nerve becomes more alert as he listens for the crunch, crunch, crunch of some official step on the gravel. How vivid and eerie seem his surroundings! The lonesome hours of the night strike a sympathetic chord in his sensitive nature and the balmy stillness calls forth his starry fancies. At this hour when his comrades lie in their tents bewitched by sleep, the most beguiling of enchantments, he is conscious that another mysterious world is awakening all around him in the solitude and silence. The air is filled with fairies holding their imperceptible revels. He hears the rustling of the leaves, the intermittent chattering of the crickets, the soughing of the breeze in the branches, as if the trees in great distress were calling mournfully to each other. Should this be the first time that he is alone at night on post, he is a little afraid, and starts at the faintest sound. It seems that when man reposes, the _Things_ come forth to their daily tasks, performed in a world unknown to us. Never will he forget, however, the ineffable beauty of the scene, so beautiful that he is filled with a little sadness. The buildings across the Plain, stern and melancholy even in the darkness, seemed to be companion sentinels ever watchful over their traditions, and guarding the sleeping hills dimly discernible through their misty blankets. Occasionally a graceful river steamer, like some huge Jack-o’-Lantern ruffling the smooth waters of the Hudson, glides softly by under the cliff, her throbbing engines seeming to send forth a certain warmth that dispels the chill of the early morning. It is at this hour especially that his thoughts wander to his “ain Folk” and reveal to his senses the full aroma of his days at home. The clanking of a sword in the darkness calls him back to earth and to the realization that the dreaded inspection is at hand. “Halt! Who goes there?” he quickly challenges. “Corporal of the Guard,” answers a sepulchral voice from the shadows. “Advance, Corporal of the Guard, with the countersign,” uncertainly commands the plebe. When within whispering distance, the corporal faintly breathes the countersign, “Saratoga,” or “Burgoyne” (or maybe Tannhäuser or Dumbguard, to test the sentinel), whereupon the corporal is allowed to pass by the sentinel’s order: “Advance, Corporal of the Guard.”