ad ever seen, and of whom he did not even possess a
likeness, was next door to being pitiable. His voice was like a raven's,
with something rather less than a raven's sense of melody; he was very
prone to sing, and his songs were mournful ones. He was not a social
acquisition in any generally accepted sense, although his language was
completely free from blasphemy or coarseness. His ideas were too cut
and dried to make conversation even interesting. But his loyalty and his
sense of duty were as adamant.

He had changed the double guard at the crossroads; and had posted two
fresh men by the mud-walled guardroom door. He had lit his pipe for the
dozenth time, and had let it go out again while he hummed a verse of a
Covenanters' hymn. And he had just started up to wall over to the cell
and make a cursory inspection of his prisoner, when his ears caught a
distant sound that was different from any of the night sounds, though
scarcely louder.

Prompt as a rifle in answer to the trigger, he threw himself down on
all fours, and laid his ear to the ground. A second later, he was on his
feet again.

"Guard!" he yelled. "Turn out!"

Cots squeaked and jumped, and there came a rush of hurrying feet. The
eight men not on watch ran out in single file, still buttoning their
uniforms, and lined up beside the two who watched the guardroom door.

"Stand easy!" commanded Brown. Then he marched off to the crossroads,
finding his way in the blackness more by instinct and sense of direction
than from any landmark, for even the road beneath his feet was barely
visible.

"D'you mean to tell me that neither of you men can hear that sound?" he
asked the sentries.

Both men listened intently, and presently one of them made out a very
faint and distant noise, that did not seem to blend in with the other
night-sounds.

"Might be a native drum?" he hazarded.

"No, 'tain't!" said the other. "I got it now. It's a horse galloping.
Tired horse, by the sound of him, and coming this way. All right,
Sergeant."

"One of you go two hundred yards along the road, and form an
advance-post, so to speak. Challenge him the minute he's within
ear-shot, and shoot him if he won't halt. If he halts, pass him along to
Number Two. Number Two, pass him along to the guardroom, where
I'll deal with him! Which of you's Number One? Number One,
then--forward--quick--march!"

The sentry trudged off in one direction, and Bill Brown in another. The
sentry conceale