The six generals rose, leaving the little fire to sputter out.  General Johnston was very grave, and so were all the others as they started toward their divisions, except Beauregard, who said in sanguine tones: 

“Gentlemen, we shall sleep tomorrow night in the enemy’s camp.”

Word, in the mysterious ways of war, had slid through the camp that the generals were in council, and many soldiers, driven by overwhelming curiosity, had crept through the underbrush to watch the figures by the fire in the ravine.  They could not hear, they did not seek to hear, but they were held by a sort of spell.  When they saw them separate, every one moving toward his own headquarters, they knew that there was nothing to await now but the dawn, and they stole back toward their own headquarters.

Dick had gone with Colonel Kenton to his own regiment, in the very heart of the Orphan Brigade, and on his way his uncle said: 

“Dick, you will sleep among my own lads, and I ask you for your own sake to make no attempt to escape tonight.  You would certainly be shot.”

“I recognize that fact, sir, and I shall await a better opportunity.”

“What to do with you in the morning I don’t know, but we shall probably be able to take care of you.  Meanwhile, Dick, go to sleep if you can.  See, our boys are spread here through the woods.  If it were day you’d probably find at least a dozen among them whom you know, and certainly a hundred are of blood kin to you, more or less.”

Dick saw the dim forms stretched in hundreds on the ground, and, thanking his uncle for his kindness, he stretched himself upon an unoccupied bit of turf and closed his eyes.  But it was impossible for young Richard Mason to sleep.  He felt again that terrible thrill of agony, because he, alone, of all the score and more of Northern millions, knew that the Southern trap was about to fall, and he could not tell.

Never was he further from sleep.  His nerves quivered with actual physical pain.  He opened his eyes again and saw the dim forms lying in row on row as far in the forest as his eye could reach.  Then he listened.  He might hear the rifle of some picket, more wary or more enterprising than the others, sounding the alarm.  But no such sound came to his ears.  It had turned warmer again, and he heard only the Southern wind, heavy with the odors of grass and flower, sighing through the tall forest.

An anger against his own surged up in his breast.  Why wouldn’t they look?  How could they escape seeing?  Was it possible for one great army to remain unknown within cannon shot of another a whole night?  It was incredible, but he had seen it, and he knew it.  Fierce and bitter words rose to his lips, but he did not utter them.

Dick lay a long time, with his eyes open, and the night was passing as peacefully as if there would be no red dawn.  Occasionally he heard a faint stir near him, as some restless soldier turned on his side in his sleep, and now and then a muttered word from an officer who passed near in the darkness.