When all were on his own shore the golden trumpet sang merrily again, and they turned the heads of their horses southward.
Harry rode deeper into the ancient wood.

They might throw out scouts or skirmishers and he had no mind to be taken.

It was his belief that they came from Romney, where a Northern army had gathered in great force and would eventually march toward Jackson at Winchester.

But whatever their errand, here was something for him to watch, and he meant to know what they intended.
The Northern troop, youths also, the average of their age not much more than twenty, rode briskly along the edge of the little river, which was a shining one for them, too, as well as Harry.

They knew that no enemy in force was near, and they did not suspect that a single horseman followed, keeping in the edge of the woods, his eyes missing nothing that they did.
As for themselves, they were in the open now and the brilliant sunshine quickened their blood.