e of field mice playing about.

The moon was very bright now, and the movements of the mice were plain;
they were feeding on the seeds of plants in the hay-cock, and from time
to time dashed under--the hay. Then they gambolled farther off and were
making merry over a pod of wild peas when a light form came skimming
noiselessly over the field. There was a flash, a hurried rush, a clutch,
a faint squeak, and one of the mice was borne away in the claws of its
feathered foe. The survivor scrambled under the hay over Rolf's face and
somewhere into hiding.

The night passed in many short naps. The bugle sounded at daybreak and
the soldiers arose to make breakfast. Again one approached to use a
handful of hay for fire-kindler, and again the friendly thistles did
their part. More and more now his ear caught suggestive words and
sounds--"Plattsburg"--"the colonel"--etc.

The breakfast smelt wonderfully captivating--poor Rolf was famished. The
alluring aroma of coffee permeated the hay-cock. He had his dried meat,
but his need was water; he was tormented with thirst, and stiff and
tortured; he was making the hardest fight of his life. It seemed long,
though doubtless it was less than half an hour before the meal was
finished, and to Rolf's relief there were sounds of marching and the
noises were drowned in the distance.

By keeping his head covered with hay and slowly raising it, he was safe
to take a look around. It was a bright, sunny morning. The hay-cock,
or thistle-cock, was one of several that had been rejected. It was a
quarter-mile from cover; the soldiers were at work cutting timber and
building a stockade around the mill; and, most dreadful to relate, a
small dog was prowling about, looking for scraps on the scene of the
soldiers' breakfast. If that dog came near his hiding-place, he knew the
game was up. At such close quarters, you can fool a man but not a dog.

Fortunately the breakfast tailings proved abundant, and the dog went off
to assist a friend of his in making sundry interesting smell analyses
along the gate posts of the stockade.

Chapter 76. The Duel

This was temporary relief, but left no suggestion of complete escape.
He lay there till nearly noon suffering more and more from the cramped
position and thirst, and utterly puzzled as to the next move.

"When ye don't like whar ye air, git up without any fuss, and go whar
ye want to be," was what Sylvanne once said to him, and it came to Rolf
with