The night brooded over the white tents, and glimmering fires of a great army, which lay on the open ground near Saratoga. Street after street of tents and marquees, in martial array, stretched its long lines, now silent and dark, perpendicular to the color line. Outside the camp glimmered embers of the few fires that were left burning, and some distance off, on the plain, and amid the little patches of wood, were the brighter fires that told of the outlying pickets.
Occasionally, the distant challenge of a sentry would be heard, to be followed by the same routine of “Who goes there?” “Rounds.” “Halt, rounds, advance one with the countersign. Countersign correct. Pass, Rounds, and a-all’s well!” The last words drawn out into a long, musical call, caught up and repeated along the line of ou
