THE CAVALRY COMBAT Harry was a fine sleeper.

One learns to be in long campaigns.

Most of those about him slept as well, and the ten thousand horses, which had been ridden hard in the great display during the day, also sank into quiet.

The restless hoofs ceased to move.

Now and then there was a snort or a neigh, but the noise was slight on Fleetwood Hill or in the surrounding forests.
A man came through the thickets soon after midnight and moved with the greatest caution toward the hill on which the artillery was ranged.
He was in neither blue nor gray, just the plain garb of a civilian, but he was of strong figure and his smoothly shaven face, with its great width between the eyes and massive chin, expressed character and uncommon resolution.
The intruder--he was obviously such, because he sought with the minutest care to escape observation--never left the shelter of the bushes.
He had all the skill of the old forest runners, because his footsteps made no sound as he passed and he knew how to keep his figure always in the shadows until it became a common blur with them.
His was a most delicate task, in which discovery was certain death, but he never faltered.