“There was something humorous in the exploits of the man who held up General Early’s messengers, but the fellow is dangerous, exceedingly dangerous at such a time.”

“I’ve an idea who he is, sir,” said Harry.

“Indeed!  What do you know?”

Then Harry told nearly all that he knew about Shepard, but not all—­ that struggle in the river, and his sparing of the spy and the filching of the map at the Curtis house, for instance—­and the commander-in-chief listened with great attention.

“A bold man, uncommonly bold, and it appears uncommonly skilled, too.  We must send out a general alarm, that is, we must have all our own scouts and spies watching for him.”

Harry said nothing, but he did not believe that anybody would catch Shepard.  The man’s achievements had been so startling that they had created the spell of invincibility.  His old belief that he was worth ten thousand men on the Northern battle line returned.  No movement of the Army of Northern Virginia could escape him, and no lone messenger could ever be safe from him.

Lee returned to his camp on Clarke’s Mountain, and, a great revival meeting being in progress, he joined it, sitting with a group of officers.  Fitzhugh Lee, W. H. F. Lee, Jones, Rosser, Wickham, Munford, Young, Wade Hampton and a dozen others were there.  Taylor and Marshall and Peyton of his staff were also in the company.

The preacher was a man of singular power and earnestness, and after the sermon he led the singing himself, in which often thirty or forty thousand voices joined.  It was a moving sight to Harry, all these men, lads, mostly, but veterans of many fields, united in a chorus mightier than any other that he had ever heard.  It would have pleased Stonewall Jackson to his inmost soul, and once more, as always, a tear rose to his eye as he thought of his lost hero.

Harry and Dalton left their horses with an orderly and came back to the edge of the great grove, in which the meeting was being held.  They had expected to find St. Clair and Happy Tom there, but not seeing them, wandered on and finally drifted apart.  Harry stood alone for a while on the outskirts of the throng.  They were all singing again, and the mighty volume of sound rolled through the wood.  It was not only a singular, it was a majestic scene also to Harry.  How like unto little children young soldiers were! and how varied and perplexing were the problems of human nature!  They were singing with the utmost fervor of Him who had preached continuously of peace, who was willing to turn one cheek when the other was smitten, and because of their religious zeal they would rush the very next day into battle, if need be, with increased fire and zeal.

He saw a heavily built, powerful man on the outskirts, but some distance away, singing in a deep rolling voice, but something vaguely familiar in the figure drew his glance again.  He looked long and well and then began to edge quietly toward the singer, who was clothed in the faded butternut uniform that so many of the Confederate soldiers wore.