ood speed toward the village, while they talked,
and Harry had become at once the friend and lieutenant of young Captain
Sherburne. His manner was so pleasant, so intimate, so full of charm,
that he did not have the power or the will to resist it.

They soon saw Hertford, a village so little that it was not able to put
itself on the map. It stood on the crest of a low hill, and the tobacco
barn was about as large as all the other buildings combined. The
twilight had now merged into night, but there was a bright sky and
plenty of stars, and they saw well.

Captain Sherburne stopped his troop at a distance of three or four
hundred yards, while they were still under cover of the forest.

"What's the name of the commander there?" he asked.

"McGee," Harry replied. "Means well, but rather obstinate."

"That's the way with most of these untrained men. We mustn't risk being
shot up by those whom we've come to help. Lasley, give them a call from
the bugle. Make it low and soft though. We don't want those behind us to
hear it."

Lasley, a boy no older than Harry, rode forward a dozen yards in front
of the troop, put his bugle to his lips and blew a soft, warning call.
Harry had been stirred by the first sound of a hostile trumpet hours
before, and now this, the note of a friend, thrilled him again. He gazed
intently at the village, knowing that the pickets would be on watch, and
presently he saw men appear at the edge of the hill just in front of
the great warehouse. They were the pickets, beyond a doubt, because the
silver starshine glinted along the blades of their bayonets.

The bugler gave one more call. It was a soft and pleasing sound. It said
very plainly that the one who blew and those with him were friends.
Two men in uniform joined the pickets beside the warehouse, and looked
toward the point whence the note of the bugle came.

"Forward!" said Captain Philip Sherburne, himself leading the way, Harry
by his side. The troops, wheeling back into the road and marching by
fours in perfect order, rode straight toward the village.

"Who comes?" was the stern hail.

"A troop of Stonewall Jackson's cavalry to help you," replied Sherburne.
"You are about to be attacked by a Northern division eight hundred
strong."

"Who says so?" came the question in a tone tinged with unbelief, and
Harry knew that it was the stubborn and dogmatic McGee who spoke.

"Lieutenant Harry Kenton of the Invincibles, one of Stonewall Jackso