Now the medieval glow was gone, and he was modern and watchful to the core.

He had felt instinctively that it was a trumpet of the foe, and the Northern trumpets were not likely to sing there in Virginia unless many Northern horsemen rode together.
Then he saw their arms glinting among the trees, the brilliant beams of the sun dancing on the polished steel of saber hilt and rifle barrel.
A minute more, and three hundred Union horsemen emerged from the forest and rode, in beautiful order, down to the edge of the stream.
Harry regarded them with an admiration which was touched by no hate.
They were heavily built, strong young men, riding powerful horses, and it was easy for anyone to see that they had been drilled long and well.
Their clothes and arms were in perfect order, every horse had been tended as if it were to be entered in a ring for a prize.

It was his thought that they were not really enemies, but worthy foes.

That ancient spirit of the tournament, where men strove for the sake of striving, came to him again.
The Union horsemen rode along the edge of the stream a little space, and then plunged into a ford.

The water rose to their saddle skirts, but they preserved their even line and Harry still admired.