voices could be heard. One group was lustily singing songs of the South, and I passed a shop, the door wide open, the farrier busy shoeing cavalry horses, their riders lounging idly without.
I was an hour reaching the dirt pike, although the distance was not great, and I knew the way well. There I encountered infantry pickets, who became more vigilant, and inquisitive, as I approached closer to the Coulter house. This was a double log cabin, erected in a grove of trees, some fifty feet or more back from the road, and surrounded by a slab fence. A squadron of cavalry were encamped in the yard, their horses saddled, and tied to the palings, while the lights gleaming through the windows, together with the dying glow of a fire to the right, dimly revealed a group of men clustered on the front porch. It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the obstructing guard to the foot of the steps, where an officer, whose face was indistinguishable, took my name, and repeated it to an orderly stationed at the closed door. The latter disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, and I stood there silently in the shadows waiting.
Ten minutes must have elapsed before the door opened again, and I heard my name called. The group of waiting officers fell aside, and I passed in between them, unable to recognize a face. Once
