The sense of unreality disappeared with the brilliant dawn, though the night itself with the battle in the moonlight seemed to be almost a dream.  Yet the combat had been fought, and he had met Harry Kenton and his friends.  The empty saddles proved it.

“I see a great country opening out before us,” said Warner.  “I suppose it’s this Valley of Virginia, of which we’ve all heard and seen so much, and in which once upon a time Stonewall Jackson thumped us so often.”

“It’s a branch of it,” said Pennington, “but Stonewall Jackson is gone, God rest his soul—­I say that from the heart, even if he was against us—­ and I’ve an idea that instead of getting thumped we’re going to do the thumping.  There’s something about this man Sheridan that appeals to me.  We’ve seen him in action with artillery, but now he’s a cavalry commander.  They say he rides fast and far and strikes hard.  People are beginning to talk about Little Phil.  Well, I approve of Little Phil.”

“He’ll be glad to hear of it,” said Dick.  “It will brace him up a lot.”

“He may be lucky to get it,” replied Pennington calmly.  “There are many generals in this war, and two or three of them have been commander-in-chief, of whom I don’t approve at all.  I think you’ll find, too, that history will have a habit of agreeing with me.”

“But don’t make predictions,” said Dick.  “There have been no genuine, dyed-in-the-wool prophets since those ancient Hebrews were gathered to their fathers, and that was a mighty long time ago.”

“There you’re wrong, Dick,” said Warner, earnestly.  “It’s all a matter of mathematics, the scientific application of a romantic and imaginative science to facts.  Get all your premises right, arrange them correctly, and the result follows as a matter of course.”

The trumpet sounded boots and saddles, and cut him short.  In a few more minutes they were all up and away, riding over the hills and across the dips toward the main sweep of the famous valley which played such a great part in the tactics and fighting of the Civil War.  It had already been ravaged much by march and battle and siege, but its heavier fate was yet to come.

But Dick did not think much of what might happen as he rode with his comrades across the broken country and saw, rising before them, the dim blue line of the mountains that walled in the eastern side of the valley.  The day was not so warm as usual, and among the higher hills a breeze was blowing, bringing currents of fresh, cool air that made the lungs expand and the pulses leap.  The three youths felt almost as if they had been re-created, and Pennington became vocal.

“Woe is the day!” he said.  “I lament what I have lost!”

“If what you have lost was worth keeping I lament with you,” said Dick.  “O, woe is the day!”

“O, woe is the day for me, too!” said Warner, “but why do we utter cries of woe, Frank?”