“Haystoun said they’d be here at midnight,” he whispered to his companion.  “We haven’t long.  When do you suppose Andover will come?”

“Not for an hour and a half at the earliest.  Afraid this is going to be our own private show.  Where’s Haystoun?”

George nodded back to the fire in the hollow, and the tent beside it.  “There, I expect, sleeping.  He’s dog-tired, and he always was a very cool hand in a row.  He’ll be wakened soon enough, poor chap.”

“You’re sure he can’t tell us anything?”

“Nothing.  He told me all.  Better let him be.”  Mitchinson came up with the rearguard.  Living all but alone in the wilds had made him a silent man compared to whom the taciturn St. John was garrulous.  He nodded to George and sat down.

“How many are we?” George asked.

“Forty-three, counting the three of us.  Not enough for a good stand.  Wonder how it’ll turn out.  Never had to do such a thing before.”

St. John, whose soul longed for Maxims, posted his men as best he could.  There was no time to throw up earthworks, but a rough cairn of stone which stood in the middle of the hollow gave at least a central rallying-ground.  Then they waited, watching the fleecy night vapours blow across the peaks and straining their ears for the first sound of men.

George grew impatient.  “It can’t be more than five miles to the pass.  Shouldn’t some of us try to get there?  It would make all the difference.”

St. John declined sharply.  “We’ve taken our place and we must stick to it.  We can’t afford to straggle.  Hullo! it’s just on twelve.  Thwaite has had three hours to prepare, and he’s bound to have wakened the south.  I fancy the business won’t quite come off this time.”

Suddenly in the chilly silence there rose something like the faint and distant sound of rifles.  It was no more than the sound of stone dropping on a rock ledge, for, still and clear and cold though the night was, the narrowness of the valley and the height of the cliffs dulled all distant sounds.  But each man had the ear of the old hunter, and waited with head bent forward.

Again the drip-drip; then a scattering noise as when one lets peas fall on the floor.

“God!  That’s carbines.  Who the devil are they fighting with?” Mitchinson’s eye had lost its lethargy.  His scraggy neck was craned forward, and his grim mouth had relaxed into a grimmer smile.

“It’s them, sure enough,” said St. John, and spoke something to his servant.

“I’m going forward,” said George.  “It may be somebody else making a stand, and we’re bound to help.”

“You’re bound not to be an ass,” said St. John.  “Who in the Lord’s name could it be?  It may be the Badas polishing off some hereditary foes, and it may be Marker getting rid of some wandering hillmen.  Man, we’re miles beyond the pale.  Who’s to make a stand but ourselves?”

Again came the patter of little sounds, and then a long calm.