John Vaughan was in the ranks of a New York regiment. He pressed Betty's hand with a lingering touch he hadn't intended. She seemed unconscious that he was holding it.
"You are going to march in the ranks?" she asked in surprise.
"Yes. I want to see war as it is. These boys are my friends from New York."
"You will fight with them?"
"No—just see with their eyes—that's all. And then tell you exactly what happened. I can hide behind a barn or a tree without being court-martialed."
She looked at him quickly with a new interest, pressed his hand again and said:
"Good luck!"
"And home again soon!" he cried with a wave of his arms as he hurried to join his marching men.
The army camped at Centreville, seven miles from Beauregard's lines, and spent the 19th and 20th of July resting and girding their loins for the first baptism of fire. The volunteers were eager for the fray. The first touch of the skirmishers had resulted in fifteen or twenty killed. But the action had been too far away to make any serious impression.
Between the two armies crept the silvery thread of the little stream of Bull Run, its clear beautiful waters flashing in the July sun.