Marching orders had been welcomed by the men, and the first few miles had been marked by jollity; the jest repeated growing from four to four; great shouts had risen, at seeing the dust made by our columns advancing on parallel roads. The air was stagnant, the sun directly in our faces. This little peaked infantry cap is a damnable outrage. The straps across my shoulders seemed to cut my flesh. Great drops rolled down my face. My canteen was soon dry. The men were no longer erect as on dress parade. Each one bent over--head down. The officers had no heavy muskets--no heavy cartridge-boxes; they marched erect; the second lieutenant was using his sword for a walking-cane. "Close up!" shouted the sergeants. My heels were sore. The dust was stifling. Another halt; a new detail for water. The march continued--a stumbling, staggering march, in the darkness. A hundred yards and a halt of a minute; a quarter of a mile and a halt of half an hour; an exasperating march. At two o'clock in the morning we were permitted to break ranks. I was too tired to sleep. Where we were I knew not, and I know not--somewhere in Fairfax County, Virginia. Willis, who was near me, lying on his blanket, his cartridge-box for a pillow, said that we were the left of McDowell's army; that the centre and right extended for miles; that the general headquarters ought to be at Fairfax Court-House at this moment, and that if Beauregard didn't look sharp he would wake up some fine morning and find old Heintz in his rear. * * * * * Before the light we were aroused by the reveillé. The moving and halting process was resumed, and was kept up for many hours. We reached the railroad. Our company was sent forward to relieve the pickets. We were in the woods, and within a hundred yards of a feeble rivulet which, ran from west to east almost parallel with our skirmish-line; nothing could be seen in front but trees. Beyond the stream vedettes were posted on a ridge. The men of the company were in position, but at ease. The division was half a mile in our rear. I was lying on my back at the root of a scrub-oak very like the blackjacks of Georgia and the Carolinas. The tree caused me to think of my many sojourns in the South. Willis was standing a few yards away; he was in the act of lighting his pipe. "What's that?" said he, dropping the match. "What's what?" I asked. "There! Don't you hear it? two--three--" At the word "three" I heard distinctly, in the far northwest, a low rumble. All the men were on their feet, silent, serious. Again the distant cannon was heard.