Talk and fellowship were over.

Everything before him now was grim and menacing.
The dense woods and the darkness hid them so securely that they could not have been seen twenty yards away, but the men rode on at a sure pace, as if they knew the ground well.

The silence was deep and intense, save for the footsteps of the horses and now and then a night bird in the tall trees calling.
Before they had gone far a man stepped from a thicket and held up a rifle.
"Four men from the Orphan Brigade with a prisoner," said Robertson.
"Advance with the prisoner," said the picket, and the four men rode forward.

Dick saw to both left and right other pickets, all in the gray uniform of the South, and his heart grew cold within him.

The hair on his head prickled again at its roots, and it was a dreadful sensation.
What did it mean?
Why these Southern pickets within cannon shot of the Northern lines?
The men rode slowly on.