"Yes," replied Fisher's voice from the rear.

He seemed so near that they started on again.

But after another five minutes, Ashby, who was last but one, shouted
again.

"Where are you, Fisher minor?"

There was no answer.

"Wait a bit, you fellows. Fisher minor's behind."

But no answer came from that direction either.

"Here's a go," said Ashby to himself. "That kid Fisher's gone lame, and
he'll be lost if I don't wait for him."

So he dismally turned back, shouting and whistling as he went.

The clouds all round grew duller and heavier in the fading light, and
the wind-blown rain struck keenly on the wanderer's cheek.

"That kid," said Ashby to himself, as he sturdily tramped through the
marsh, "ought not to have come. He's not up to it."

But despite all his shouting and whistling and cooeying, not a sound
came out of the mist but the wind and the driving of the rain.

Still Ashby could not bring himself to leave the "kid" in the lurch.
Even if he did not find him it would be better to--

"Ah! what was that?"

He clapped his hands to his mouth and shouted against the wind with all
his might.

His voice was flung back in his face; but with it there came the feeble
sound of a "coo-ey" somewhere near.

Ashby sprang to it like a drowning man to a straw. If it was only a
lost sheep it would be some company. For ten minutes he beat round,
shouting all the time, and once or twice fancying he heard an answer.

Then suddenly he came upon a great boulder, against which leaned Fisher
minor, whimpering and shivering.

"Here you are!" said Ashby, joyously. "Thank God for it! I gave you up
for lost. The others are gone on. Come on. Hang on my arm, old hoss."

"I can't; I'm too fagged to go on. I'm awfully sleepy, Ashby. You go
on; I'll come presently."

Ashby's reply was prompt and vigorous. He took his fellow-junior by the
arm and began to march him down the slope as fast, almost faster than
his weary legs would carry him.

And as they started, the last of the light died out of the mist, and
left them in blank darkness.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

ROLLITT MAKES A RECORD FOR FELLSGARTH.

The Modern seniors had slept on soundly that morning, secure of their
prey. The military operations of the preceding evening, although they
resulted in the night of the besieged, had not tended to the glory of
the besiegers. Indeed, when the door had at last been broken in and it
was discovered that the