were training to
be foot-racers. Harry merely smiled, and he came presently to the
Invincibles, who were trudging along stubbornly, with the officers
riding on their flanks. Langdon was as cheerful as usual.

"Things have to come to their worst before they get better," he said
to Harry, "and I suppose we've about reached the worst. A sight of the
enemy would be pleasant, even if it meant battle."

"We're marching on Bath," said Harry, "and we ought to strike it
to-night, though I'm afraid the Yankees have got warning of our coming."

He was thinking of Shepard, who now loomed very large to him. The
circumstances of their meetings were always so singular that this
Northern scout and spy seemed to him to possess omniscience. Beyond
a doubt he would notify every Northern garrison he could reach of
Jackson's coming.

Suddenly the band of South Carolinians, who were still left in the
Invincibles, struck up a song:

"Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!
Ho, dwellers in the vales!
Ho, ye who by the chafing tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade:
Let desk and case and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade!"

All the Invincibles caught the swing and rush of the verses, and
regiments before them and behind them caught the time, too, if not the
words. The chant rolled in a great thundering chorus through the wintry
forest. It was solemn and majestic, and it quickened the blood of these
youths who believed in the cause for which they fought, just as those on
the other side believed in theirs.

"It was written by one of our own South Carolinians," said St. Clair,
with pride. "Now here goes the second verse! Lead off, there, Langdon!
They'll all catch it!"

"The despot roves your fairest lands;
And till he flies or fears,
Your fields must grow but armed bands
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears:
Give up to mildew and to rust
The useless tools of gain
And feed your country's sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!"

Louder and louder swelled the chorus of ten thousand marching men. It
was not possible for the officers to have stopped them had they wished
to do so, and they did not wish it. Stonewall Jackson, who had read and
studied much, knew that the power of simple songs was scarcely less than
that of rifle and bayonet, and he willingly let them sing on. Now and
then,