“What?”
“A joint of my new flute.”
And Tom Herbert’s expression was so melancholy that Stuart burst into laughter.
“You may have lost your flute, Tom,” he said, leaning on his shoulder, “but you have won your spurs at least, in the cavalry!”
XVIII. — DROWSYLAND.
At daylight, on the next morning, Stuart had crossed the Potomac into Maryland.
He had advanced from Wolf Run Shoals to Fairfax Court House, where the men rifled the sutlers’ shops of tobacco, figs, white gloves, straw hats, and every edible and wearable:—then the column pushed on toward Seneca Falls, where the long wavering line of horsemen might have been seen hour after hour crossing the moonlit river, each man, to prevent wetting, holding above his head a shot or shell taken from the caissons. Then the artillery was dragged through: the panting horses trotted on, and the first beams of day saw the long column of Stuart ready to advance on its perilous pathway to the Susquehanna, by the route between the Federal army and Washington.
The word was given, and with the red flags fluttering, Stuart moved toward Rockville, unopposed, save by a picket, which was driven off by the advance guard. Without further incident, he then pushed on, and entered the town in triumph.