They marched in the
moonlight, keeping among the trees, and listening for any sounds that
might be hostile.
"It's not likely though that we'll be molested," said St. Clair.
"The men on both sides don't yet realize fully that they are here to
shoot at one another. This is our place, along a little brook, another
tributary of the Manassas."
They stopped in a grove and disposed the men, twenty in number, along
a line of several hundred yards, with instructions not to fire unless
they knew positively what they were shooting at. Harry and St. Clair
remained near the middle of the line, at the edge of the brook, where
they sat down on the bank. The country was open in front of them,
and Harry saw a distant light.
"What's that?" he asked.
"The campfire of a Yankee outpost. I told you they were very near."
"And that, I suppose, is one of their bugles."
A faint but musical note was brought to them by the light wind blowing
in their faces.
"That's what it is. It may be the signal of some movement, but they
can't attempt anything serious without showing themselves. Our
sentinels are posted along here for miles."
The sound of the bugle continued faint and far away.
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