We were absent, maybe, for two hours and a half; and on our way back fell in with Billy, who, having suffered no ill effects from his breakfast of mushrooms (though he had eaten them under protest), was roaming the meadow in search of more.  We asked him if the two explorers had returned.

He answered “No,” and that Mr. Fett had strolled up into the wood in search of chestnuts, leaving him sentry over the camp.

“And is it thus you keep sentry?” my father demanded.

“Why, master, since this valley has no more tenantry than Sodom or Gomorrah, cities of the plain—­” Billy began confidently; but his voice trailed off under my father’s frown.

“You have done ill, the pair of you,” said my father, and strode ahead of us across the meadow.

At the gate of the enclosure he came to an abrupt halt.

The hogs had returned and were routing among our camp-furniture.  For the rest, the churchyard was empty.  But where were Nat Fiennes and Mr. Badcock, who had sallied out to follow them?  And where was Mr. Fett?

We rushed upon the brutes, and drove them squealing out of the gateway leading to the woods.  They took the rise of the glade at a scamper, and were lost to us in the undergrowth.  We followed, shouting our comrades’ names.  No answer came back to us, though our voices must have carried far beyond the next ridge.  For an hour we beat the wood, keeping together by my father’s order, and shouting, now singly, now in chorus.  Nat, likely enough, had pressed forward beyond earshot, and led Mr. Badcock on with him.  But what had become of Mr. Fett, who, as Billy asseverated, had promised to take but a short stroll?

My father’s frown grew darker and yet darker as the minutes wore on and still no voice answered our hailing.  The sun was declining fast when he gave the order to return to camp, which we found as we had left it.  We seated ourselves amid the disordered baggage, pulled out a ration apiece of salt pork and ship’s bread, and ate our supper in moody silence.

During the meal Billy kept his eye furtively on my father.

“Master,” said he, at the close, plucking up courage as my father filled and lit a pipe of tobacco, “I be terribly to blame.”

My father puffed, without answering.

“The Lord knows whether they be safe or lost,” went on Billy, desperately; “but we be safe, and those as can ought to sleep to-night.”

Still my father gave no answer.

“I can’t sleep, sir, with this on my conscience—­no, not if I tried.  Give me leave, sir, to stand sentry while you and Master Prosper take what rest you may.”

“I don’t know that I can trust you,” said my father.

“’Twas a careless act, I’ll allow.  But I’ve a-been your servant, Sir John, for twenty-two year come nest Martinmas; and you know—­or else you ought to know—­that for your good opinion, being set to it, I would stand awake till I watched out every eye in my head.”