f them was it their last sleep this side eternity!

The hours passed slowly and quietly. Presently the moon rose and
illumined the camp from end to end. Here and there I could see a picket
pacing back and forth, or an officer making his rounds. At headquarters
lights were still burning, and I did not doubt that an earnest
consultation was in progress there concerning the orders for the morrow.

At midnight came the relief, and I made the best of my way back to our
quarters, crawled into the tent, whose flaps were raised to let in every
breath of air stirring, and lay down beside Spiltdorph. I tried to move
softly, but he started awake and put out his hand and touched me.

"Is it you, Stewart?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "just in from picket. Colonel Washington reached camp an
hour ago, to be here for to-morrow's battle."

"To-morrow's battle," repeated Spiltdorph softly. "Ah, yes, I had forgot.
Do you know, Stewart, if I were superstitious, I should fear the result
of to-morrow's battle, for I had a dream about it."

"What was the dream?" I asked.

"No matter, we are not women," and he turned to go to sleep again.
"Good-night."

"Good-night," I said, and in a few moments his deep breathing told me he
was again in the land of dreams. It was long before my own eyes closed,
and my dreams were not of battle, but of a bench upon the river's bank,
and a figure all in white sitting there beside me.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS

"Wake up, man, wake up!" cried a voice in my ear, and I opened my eyes to
see Spiltdorph's kindly face bending over me. "I let you sleep as long as
I could," he added, as I sat up and rubbed my eyes, "for I knew you
needed it, but the order has come for us to march."

"All right," I said. "I'll be ready in a minute," and I ran down to the
brook and dipped my hands and face in the cool, refreshing water. A
biscuit and a piece of cold beef formed my breakfast. Our company was
striking tents and falling in for the march, and the camp was astir from
end to end. The sun was just peeping over the tree-tops, for that
fateful Wednesday, the ninth of July, 1755, had dawned clear and fair,
and all the day rode through a sky whose perfect blue remained unbroken
by a cloud.

We were soon ready for the road, and while waiting the word, Captain
Waggoner told me that the advance had begun some hours before. At three
o'clock. Colonel Gage had marched with two companies of grenadiers