He put on the bridle, leaped into the saddle, which had been left on the horse's back, and rode away on his mission. The password that night was “Manassas,” and Harry exchanged it with the pickets who curved in a great circle through the lone, cold forest. They were always glad to see him. They were alone, save when two of them met at the common end of a beat, and these youths of the South were friendly, liking to talk and to hear the news of others.
Toward the Northern segment of the circle he came to a young giant from the hills who was walking back and forth with the utmost vigor and shaking himself as if he would throw off the cold. His brown face brightened with pleasure when he saw Harry and exchanged the password.
“Two or three other officers have been by here ridin' hosses,” he said in the voice of an equal speaking to his equal, “an' they don't fill me plum' full o' envy a-tall, a-tall. I guess a feller tonight kin keep warmer walkin' on the ground than ridin' on a hoss. What might your name be, Mr. Officer?”
“Kenton. I'm a lieutenant, at present on the staff of General Jackson. What is yours?”
“Seth Moore, an' I'm always a private, but at present doin' sentinel duty, but wishin' I was at home in our double log house 'tween the blankets.”
“Have you noticed anything, Seth?” asked Harry, not at all offended by the nature of his reply.
“I've seen some snow, an' now an' then the cold top of a mountain, an'—”
“An' what, Seth?”
“Do you see that grove straight toward the north four or five hundred yards away?”
“Yes, but I can make nothing of it but a black blur. It's too far away to tell the trunks of the trees apart.”