There is no moon, and but few stars are visible. What a strange, silent, lonely night! Nobody knows how near the enemy is. He may be far away in those woods yonder; or he may be dangerously closewithin a few rods.

Fred moves continually about, examining the ground. "Didn't ye hear nothing?" whispers old Joel. “A crackling noise down there in the holler!"

They listen not a sound! Fred crouches low, in order to discern against the sky any object that may be moving near. He puts his ear to the ground. Footsteps! There is somebody approaching. Two or three forms are visible.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Patrol."

"Stand! Advance one with the countersign."

The countersign is right. The patrol asks a few questions, and moves on. Again silence.

"There'll be an attack along the line here, somewheres about daylight," prognosticates old Joel. "There always is after one o' them spies has been around."

"Do you mean that Union man Cy brought in? He was no spy y! says Fred.

66 Bet my rations on that. He's in the rebel camp, long 'fore this. I believe Southern Union men are a humbug, gen'ly; and the whole pass system is wus'n the deuce. I wouldn't grant one o'them chaps a pass to go where they please, any more'n I'd. Was that noise anything?"

"Only the wind: it is rising a little."

"By time! there's something! see it!" "Challenge it!" says Fred.

Joel challenges. No response. He is about to fire, when Fred, who can scarce restrain his laughter, stops him.

"It's nothing but a bough waving in the wind!"

"So I thought when I challenged it," says the old man; "but it's always well to be sure.'

Slowly the moments drag. The stars grow dim.

The dawn is not far off. What thoughts come to the boy soldier as he watches there?-his mother, who loves him, and whose life would be left so desolate if any accident should happen to him-the deadly terrible war; (and when, when will it ever end?) the strange sense of loneliness and mystery that fills him as he listens, and looks up at the far, dim stars; and, beating under all, a wild pulse of ambition, as he thinks of the glory which may be won.

Hark! what is that? Surely a sound of hoofs, distant, moving slowly as with cautious approach. "Jake!" whispers Fred; "a troop of horse!"

"It's only our videttes," says Jake, languidly. "You and old Joel are always seeing bugbears."

A small stream flows through a ravine in front of the picket line. Beyond that the ground is broken and partially wooded. Ridge and hollow are beginning to appear faintly defined in the early December twilight. Fred strains his eyes, gazing to catch the first indication of a movement in that direction. Suddenly, crack! crack! The enemy has been discovered by pickets farther down, and been fired upon.

The reports are a signal of alarm to the outposts. They also serve as a signal to the enemy that his approach is perceived. Instantly the muffled sound of hoofs breaks into a clatter, a clash-a galloping headlong rush over the hillsides, down the slopes-crash, crash through the thickets! plash, plash, into the water! and crack, crack, flash, flash, all along the line of pickets! "Told ye so!" cried old Joel. "I said there'd be an attack."

66

Nothing but a little cavalry dash!" says Jake, alert. "Don't ye run!" (Jake is decidedly averse to running.) "I don't believe there's going to be much of a shower!"

They have dashed into our boys below!" cries Fred. "Fall back, or we shall be cut off."

"The

"Don't ye run, I tell ye!" reiterates Jake. boys down there will look out for themselves. It's onl

a little squad of guerillas: stand our ground, and we'll capture the whole caboodle of 'em!"

The firing is rapid, but irregular. Pistol-shots mingle with rifle-shots. Then the clash of sabres, shrieks, shouts, yells. The pickets fall back upon their guard-Jake and his companions with the rest, but more slowly than some-too slowly; for suddenly the rebel cavalry are upon them. Having dashed into the line, and captured a few prisoners, they wheel, and make a swoop to take in what prisoners they can. Here they come, a swift, tumultuous troop, yelling, with sabres in air.

"Rally by fours!" shouts Jake.

There is an attempt to rally, but it is useless. What can a few scattered bayonets do against such an impetuous charge of cavalry?

"Quarter!" cries old Joel, throwing down his musket, and throwing up his hands.

"Blast the luck!" growls Jake, following the discreet example.

Fred does the same; but he has fired first, emptying one saddle.

They have yielded just in time. The rebels surround them, more like demons than men, spurring, brandishing their sabres, and driving them furiously down the slope into the water, and into the thickets across the stream.

A body of Federal cavalry, with an infantry support, soon comes charging after them. The pursuit is kept up, with occasional skirmishing in the rear of the raiders, until a strong force of rebels, advancing to their protection, charges in turn, and drives the pursuers back.

66

My mother!-what will she think?" is Fred's bitter reflection, when all hope of rescue is over. "There isn't much glory in this, is there, boys?" "It's rascally," says Jake, " to make men travel this

way!"

"It's better'n being mowed down on the spot with

them pesky sabres," says old Joel. "Hanged if I didn't think 'twas all over with us, one spell. It's all owing to that spy. But, boys, there's one thing—we may live to see him ketched and hung, yet!"

These words are uttered at intervals, with panting breath; for the poor fellows are well-nigh exhausted with their forced march. The pursuit over, the rebels slacken their pace; and two or three of the prisoners, who have been wounded, are taken upon horses. "I'll take this boy behind me," says one. youngster!"

"Mount,

Fred is seized by the collar: Jake gives him a boost, and he is mounted behind the horseman. "They think I'm wounded," he says to himself; "but never mind the mistake!"

"Here! hello! I'm disabled!" says Jake, hugely discontented with his forced march. "Give us a lift, can't ye?"

"I'll give you a slash over the head, if ye don't keep quiet!" answers one of the guard, pricking him on with his sword-point.

Fred had not ridden far behind the horseman, when he perceived that he was becoming separated from his companions. They were hurried on, closely guarded; while the man who had him in charge gradually fell into the rear.

"That was rather a neat operation, Daniels," said an officer, reining up beside them. He was a brigandishlooking man, with long black hair, and a face almost hidden by a thick beard, out of which advanced a stout red nose. He appeared garnished all over with pistols : there were pistols stuck in his belt, and pistols in his holsters, besides a formidable pair which he wore in the legs of his boots.

"Very neat indeed, captain," replied the man, in a voice that sounded strangely familiar to Fred's ear. "Is that boy badly hurt?" asked the captain.

"Not so but that he can ride by holding on to me. Are you faint?"-to Fred.

"No, not very," said Fred, puzzled and astonished.

He tried to remember where he had heard that voice. His guard was clad in the ordinary dress of a citizen, and he wore no sword.

"I must tighten this girth a little, if my horse is to “ ] carry double," he said loud enough for the captain's ear, and halted.

He seemed about to dismount. He of the pistols also drew rein, asking if he could be of any assistance. "No," said Daniels. "I reckon I'll let it go for the present." And he spurred on again, after endeavouring to tighten the girth without dismounting.

During the brief halt the distance between them and the main body had materially increased. Moreover, something else had happened of deep interest to Fred. The horseman, tugging at the strap to which the saddle was buckled, had turned his profile towards his prisoner. Glimpses of the silver east, brightening through the trees, shone upon it, lighting for an instant the russet beard, the calm, resolute face, the deep, quiet eyes, shadowed by the felt-hat. It was the same profile Fred had daguerreotyped upon his memory the evening before, when the suspected stranger turned from him, and walked over the hill into the fiery eye of the

sunset.

"Joel was right: the man is a spy! 'Twas he that guided the rebels! He had examined our position, and knew just where to make the attack. But I may pay him yet!" The blood rushed violently to Fred's brain, and these were the thoughts that rushed with it. "Come, Daniels, we shall be left quite behind!' I called the officer.

"I am with you," replied Daniels, spurring forward. A desperate resolve flashed its light into the boy's soul. To be revenged upon this man, and at the same time to escape! Carefully he withdrew his right hand from the horseman's waist, carefully felt with it in his own pocket, and drew forth a knife. It was a stout knife, with a long, pointed blade. He opened it with