Sheridan. The three colonels shared in the view, and when
the men had finished breakfast and dried themselves at their fires they
remounted and rode away gaily. High spirits rose again in youthful veins,
and some lad of a mellow voice began to sing. By and by all joined and a
thousand voices thundered out:

"Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee
To give a sweetness to its shade
And happiness to me.

"Here from the splendid, gay parade
Of noise and folly free
No sorrows can my peace invade
If only blessed with thee.

"Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee
To give a sweetness to its shade
And happiness to me."

Colonel Hertford made no attempt to check them as they rode across the
fields, yet green here, despite the summer's heat.

"They're bravest when they sing," he said to Colonel Winchester.

"It encourages them," said Colonel Winchester, "and I like to hear it
myself. It's a wonderful effect, a thousand or more strong lads singing,
as they sweep over the valley toward battle."

Dick, Pennington and Warner had joined in the song, but the youth some
distance ahead of them was leader. They finished "Gentle Maid" and then,
with the same lad leading them, swung into a song that made Dick start
and that for a moment made other mountains and another valley stand out
before him, sharp and clear.

"Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the Southern moon
Far o'er the mountain, breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
Weary looks, yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part,
Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.

"When in thy dreaming moons like these shall shine again,
And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
Nita! Juanita! Let me linger by thy side.
Nita! Juanita! Be my own fair bride."

They put tremendous heart and energy into the haunting old song as they
sang, and Dick still saw Sam Jarvis, the singer of the hills, and his
valley, where the paths of Harry Kenton and himself had crossed, though
at times far apart.

"Now!" shouted the young leader, "The last verse again!" and with
increased heart and energy they thundered out:

"When in thy dreaming moons like these shall