The night was somewhat advanced when he lay down.  The other prisoners were asleep already.  He had not found any kindred minds among them, and, as they were apathetic, he had not talked with them much.  Now, he did not miss them at all as he lay on his blanket and watched the wavering lights of the camp.  It was still quite dark, with a moaning wind, but his experience of weather told him that the chance of rain was gone.  Far in the west, lightning flickered and low thunder grumbled there now and then, but in the camp everything was dry.  Owing to the warmth, the fires used for cooking had been permitted to burn out, and the whole army seemed at peace.

Robert himself shared this feeling of rest.  The storm, passing so far away, soothed and lulled him.  It was pleasant to lie there, unharmed, and witness its course at a far point.  He dozed a while, fell asleep, and awoke again in half an hour.  Nothing had changed.  There was still an occasional flicker of lightning and mutter of thunder and the darkness remained heavy.  He could dimly see the forms of his comrades lying on their blankets.  Not one of them stirred.  They slept heavily and he rather envied them.  They had little imagination, and, when one was in bad case, he was lucky to be without it.

The figure lying nearest him he took to be that of the hunter, a taciturn man who talked least of them all, and again Robert felt envy because he could lose all care so thoroughly and so easily in sleep.  The man was as still and unconcerned as one of the mountain peaks that looked down upon them.  He would imitate him, and although sleep might be unwilling, he would conquer it.  A resolute mind could triumph over anything.

He shut his eyes and his will was so strong that he held them shut a full ten minutes, although sleep did not come.  When he opened them again he thought that the hunter had moved a little.  After all, the man was mortal, and had human emotions.  He was not an absolute log.

“Tilden!” he called—­Tilden was the hunter’s name.

But Tilden did not stir, nor did he respond in any way when he called a second time.  He had been mistaken.  He had given the man too much credit.  He was really a log, a dull, apathetic fellow to whom the extraordinary conditions around them made no appeal.  He would not speak to him again as long as they were prisoners together, and, closing his eyes anew, he resolutely wooed slumber once more.

Robert’s hearing was not so wonderfully keen as Tayoga’s, but it was very keen, nevertheless, and as he lay, eyes shut, something impinged upon the drums of his ears.  It was faint, but it did not seem to be a part of the usual sounds of the night.  His ear at once registered an alarm on his brain.

His eyes opened.  The man whom he had taken to be the hunter was bending over him, and, dark though it was, he distinctly saw the gleam of a knife in his hand.  His first feeling, passing in a flash, was one of vague wonderment that anybody should menace him in such a manner, and then he saw the lowering face of Garay.  He had been a fool to forget him.  With a convulsive and powerful effort he threw his body to one side, and, when the knife fell, the blade missed him by an inch.