“I didn’t know anyone could ever become dithyrambic about algebra,” said Dick.

“What’s dithyrambic?” asked Pennington.

“Spouting, Frank.  But George, as we know, is a queer fellow.  They grow ’em in Vermont, where they love steep mountains, deep ravines and hard mathematics.”

They had been speaking in low tones, but now they ceased entirely.  Shepard had come back from the forest, reporting that the junction of the roads was near, and the Confederate force was marching toward it at the utmost speed.

The hostile columns might be in conflict in a half hour now, and the men prepared themselves.  Innumerable battles and skirmishes could never keep their hearts from beating harder when it became evident that they were to go under fire once more.  After the few orders necessary, there was no sound save that of the march itself.  Meanwhile the moon and stars were doing full duty, and the night remained as bright as ever.

CHAPTER IV

THE FIGHT AT THE CROSSWAYS

Colonel Hertford was near the head of the Union column, while the three youths rode a little farther back with Colonel Winchester, the regiment of Colonel Bedford bringing up the rear.  Just behind Dick was Sergeant Whitley, mounted upon a powerful bay horse.  The sergeant had shown himself such a woodsman and scout, and he was so valuable in these capacities that Colonel Winchester had practically made him an aide, and always kept him near for orders.

Dick noticed now that the sergeant leaned a little forward in his saddle and was using his eyes and ears with all the concentration of the great plainsman that he was.  In that attitude he was a formidable figure, and, though he lacked the spy’s subtlety and education, he seemed to have much in common with Shepard.

As for Dick himself his nerves had not been so much on edge since he went into his first battle, nor had his heart beat so hard, and he knew it was because Harry Kenton and those comrades of his would be at the convergence of the roads, and they would meet, not in the confused conflict of a great battle, when a face might appear and disappear the next second, but man to man with relatively small numbers.  The moon was dimmed a little by fleecy clouds, but the silvery color, instead of vanishing was merely softened, and when Dick looked back at the Union column it, like the troop of the South, had the quality of a ghostly train.  But the clouds floated away and then the light gleamed on the barrels of the short carbines that the horsemen carried.  From a point on the other side of the forest came the softened notes of a trumpet and the great pulse in Dick’s throat leaped.  Only a few minutes more and they would be at the meeting of the ways.

Colonel Hertford sent a half dozen mounted skirmishers into the road, but the column moved forward at its even pace, still silvered in the moonlight, but ready for battle, wounds and death.  Sergeant Whitley whispered to Dick: