“Davy,” he whispered, and I pinched him.  “Davy, I reckon Polly Ann’d be kinder surprised if she knew where we was.  Eh?”

I nodded.  It seemed strange, indeed, to be talking thus at such a place.  Life has taught me since that it was not so strange, for however a man may strive and suffer for an object, he usually sits quiet at the consummation.  Here we were in the door-yard of a peaceful cabin, the ground frozen in lumps under our feet, and it seemed to me that the wind had something to do with the lightness of the night.

“Davy,” whispered Tom again, “how’d ye like to see the little feller to home?”

I pinched him again, and harder this time, for I was at a loss for adequate words.  The muscles of his legs were as hard as the strands of a rope, and his buckskin breeches frozen so that they cracked under my fingers.

Suddenly a flickering light arose ahead of us, and another, and we saw that they were candles beginning to twinkle through the palings of the fort.  These were badly set, the width of a man’s hand apart.  Presently here comes a soldier with a torch, and as he walked we could see from crack to crack his bluff face all reddened by the light, and so near were we that we heard the words of his song:—­

“O, there came a lass to Sudbury Fair,
With a hey, and a ho, nonny-nonny! 
And she had a rose in her raven hair,
With a hey, and a ho, nonny-nonny!”

“By the etarnal!” said Tom, following the man along the palings with the muzzle of his Deckard, “by the etarnal! ‘tis like shootin’ beef.”

A gust of laughter came from somewhere beyond.  The burly soldier paused at the foot of the blockhouse.

“Hi, Jem, have ye seen the General’s man?  His Honor’s in a ’igh temper, I warrant ye.”

It was fortunate for Jem that he put his foot inside the blockhouse door.

“Now, boys!”

It was Williams’s voice, and fourteen rifles sputtered out a ragged volley.

There was an instant’s silence, and then a score of voices raised in consternation,—­shouting, cursing, commanding.  Heavy feet pounded on the platform of the blockhouse.  While Tom was savagely jamming in powder and ball, the wicket gate of the fort opened, a man came out and ran to a house a biscuit’s throw away, and ran back again before he was shot at, slamming the gate after him.  Tom swore.

“We’ve got but the ten rounds,” he said, dropping his rifle to his knee.  “I reckon ’tis no use to waste it.”

“The Willing may come to-night,” I answered.

There was a bugle winding a strange call, and the roll of a drum, and the running continued.

“Don’t fire till you’re sure, boys,” said Captain Williams.