“Dick,” said Colonel Kenton, “I have talked to you as I would not have talked to anyone else, but even so, I would not have talked to you as I have, were not your escape an impossibility.  You are unharmed, but to leave this camp you would have to fly.”

“I admit it, sir.”

“Come with me.  There are men higher in rank than I who would wish to see a prisoner taken as you were.”

Dick followed him willingly and without a word.  Aware that he was not in the slightest physical danger he was full of curiosity concerning what he was about to see.  The words, “men higher in rank than I,” whipped his blood.

Colonel Kenton led through the darkness to a deep and broad ravine, into which they descended.  The sides and bottom of this ravine were clothed in bushes, and they grew thick on the edges above.  It was much darker here, but Dick presently caught ahead of him the flicker of the first light that he had seen in the Southern army.

The boy’s heart began to beat fast and hard.  All the omens foretold that he was about to witness something that he could never by any possibility forget.  They came nearer to the flickering light, and he made out seated figures around it.  They were men wrapped in cavalry cloaks, because the night air had now grown somewhat chill, and Dick knew instinctively that these were the Southern generals preparing for the hammer-stroke at dawn.

A sentinel, rifle in hand, met them.  Colonel Kenton whispered with him a moment, and he went to the group.  He returned in a moment and escorted Dick and his uncle forward.  Colonel Kenton saluted and Dick involuntarily did the same.

It was a small fire, casting only a faint and flickering light, but Dick, his eyes now used to the dusk, saw well the faces of the generals.  He knew at once which was Johnston, the chief.  He seemed older than the rest, sixty at least, but his skin was clear and ruddy, and the firm face and massive jaw showed thought and power.  Yet the countenance appeared gloomy, as if overcast with care.  Perhaps it was another omen!

By the side of Johnston sat a small but muscular man, swarthy, and in early middle years.  His face and gestures when he talked showed clearly that he was of Latin blood.  It was Beauregard, the victor of Bull Run, now second in command here, and he made a striking contrast to the stern and motionless Kentuckian who sat beside him and who was his chief.  There was no uneasy play of Johnston’s hands, no shrugging of the shoulders, no jerking of the head.  He sat silent, his features a mask, while he listened to his generals.