“And who will thank the moon for rising then? We want light now!”
“Well we have light. I am sure the stars are coming out very brightly,” said Wing, encouragingly.
But Hay declined to be encouraged.
“Oh, yes! the stars are bright enough—what we can see of them through the upper branches of these thick cedar trees,” grumbled Hay.
“Look,” said Wing, as they were passing through a fordable stream that crossed their path—“look how clearly the stars are reflected in the water under our feet! and then tell me if you do not see enough of them and if they are not bright.”
“Well, I suppose our eyes are getting used to the darkness, and we can see better now, that is all,” grumbled Hay.
After crossing the stream, they found the forest road a little clearer, so that Wing was enabled to ride up side by side with his colonel.
“We are not more than twenty miles from W. now, sir,” said the boy, cheerfully.
“Twenty Virginia miles, Wing, which means twenty-five of any other sort,” replied the colonel.
“Hist! what is that?” cried Wing, in a low, breathless voice.