, Talbot," replied Prescott, "I was wondering how
all this would end."

"The more fool you," rejoined Talbot. "Leave all that to Marse Bob.
Didn't you see how hard he was thinking back there?"

Prescott scarcely heard his words, as his eyes were caught by an unusual
movement in the hostile camp. He carried a pair of strong glasses, being
a staff officer, and putting them to his eyes he saw at once that an
event of uncommon interest was occurring within the lines of the
Northern army. There was a great gathering of officers near a large
tent, and beyond them the soldiers were pressing near. A puff of smoke
appeared suddenly, followed by a spurt of flame, and the sound of a
cannon shot thundered in their ears.

Talbot uttered an angry cry.

"What do they mean by firing on us when we're not bothering them?" he
cried.

But neither shot nor shell struck near the lines of the Southern army.
Peace still reigned unbroken. There was another flash of fire, another
cannon shot, and then a third. More followed at regular intervals. They
sounded like a signal or a salute.

"I wonder what it can mean?" said Prescott.

"If you want to find out, ask," said Talbot, and taking his comrade by
the arm, he walked toward a line of Northern sentinels posted in a wood
on their right.

"I've established easy communication," said Talbot; "there's a right
good fellow from Vermont over here at the creek bank. He talks through
his nose, but that don't hurt him. I traded him some whisky for a pouch
of tobacco last night, and he'll tell us what the row is about."

Prescott accepted his suggestion without hesitation. It was common
enough for the pickets on either side to grow friendly both before and
after those terrific but indecisive battles so characteristic of the
Civil War, a habit in which the subordinate officers sometimes shared
while those of a higher rank closed their eyes. It did no military
injury, and contributed somewhat to the smoothness and grace of life.
The thunder of the guns, each coming after its stated interval, echoed
again in their ears. A great cloud of yellowish-brown smoke rose above
the trees. Prescott used his glasses once more, but he was yet unable to
discover the cause of the commotion. Talbot, putting his fingers to his
lips, blew a soft, low but penetrating whistle, like the distant note of
a mocking-bird. A tall, thin man in faded blue, with a straggling beard
on his face and a rifle in his hand, came forw