ied, also. Jackson's men could call up
no further ounce of strength. The last ounce had gone long ago. Many of
them, though still marching and at times firing, were in a mere daze.
The roads swam past them in a dark blur and more than one babbled of
things at home.

It would soon be day and there was Winchester, where the kin of so many
of them lived, that Winchester they had left once, but to which they
were now coming back as conquerors, conquerors whose like had not been
seen since the young Napoleon led his republican troops to the conquest
of Italy. No, those French men were not as good as they. They could not
march so long and over such roads. They could not march all day and all
night, too, fighting and driving armies of brave men before them as they
fought. Yes, the Yankees were brave men! They were liars who said they
wouldn't fight! If you didn't believe it, all you had to do was to
follow Stonewall Jackson and see!

Such thoughts ran in many a young head in that army and Harry's, too,
was not free from them, although it was no new thing to him to admit
that the Yankees could and would fight just as well as the men of his
South. The difference in the last few days lay in the fact that the
Southern army was led by a man while the Northern army was led by mere
men.

The command to halt suddenly ran along the lines of Jackson's troops,
and, before it ceased to be repeated, thousands were lying prostrate in
the woods or on the grass. They flung themselves down just as they were,
reckless of horses or wagons or anything else. Why should they care?
They were Jackson's men. They had come a hundred miles, whipping armies
as they came, and they were going to whip more. But now they meant to
rest and sleep a little while, and they would resume the whipping after
sunrise.

It was but a little while until dawn and they lay still. Harry, who had
kept his eyes open, felt sorry for them as they lay motionless in the
chill of the dawn, like so many dead men.

Jackson himself took neither sleep nor rest. Without even a cloak to
keep off the cold of dawn, he walked up and down, looking at the silent
ranks stretched upon the ground, or going forward a little to gaze
in the direction of Winchester. Nothing escaped his eye, and he heard
everything. Dalton, too, had refused to lie down and he stood with
Harry. The two gazed at the sober figure walking slowly to and fro.

"He begins to frighten me," whispered Dalton. "He now