There were many cleverer men in the non-commissioned ranks of Baine’s command, many who knew more of the native languages, and who had more imagination.  But there was none who knew better how to win the unqualified respect and the obedience of British and native alike, or who could be better counted on to obey an order, when it came, literally, promptly and in the teeth of anything.

Brown’s theories on religion were a thing to marvel at, and walk singularly wide of, for he was a preacher with a pair of fists when thoroughly aroused.  And his devotion to a girl in England whom no one in his regiment had ever seen, and of whom he did not even possess a likeness, was next door to being pitiable.  His voice was like a raven’s, with something rather less than a raven’s sense of melody; he was very prone to sing, and his songs were mournful ones.  He was not a social acquisition in any generally accepted sense, although his language was completely free from blasphemy or coarseness.  His ideas were too cut and dried to make conversation even interesting.  But his loyalty and his sense of duty were as adamant.

He had changed the double guard at the crossroads; and had posted two fresh men by the mud-walled guardroom door.  He had lit his pipe for the dozenth time, and had let it go out again while he hummed a verse of a Covenanters’ hymn.  And he had just started up to wall over to the cell and make a cursory inspection of his prisoner, when his ears caught a distant sound that was different from any of the night sounds, though scarcely louder.

Prompt as a rifle in answer to the trigger, he threw himself down on all fours, and laid his ear to the ground.  A second later, he was on his feet again.

“Guard!” he yelled.  “Turn out!”

Cots squeaked and jumped, and there came a rush of hurrying feet.  The eight men not on watch ran out in single file, still buttoning their uniforms, and lined up beside the two who watched the guardroom door.

“Stand easy!” commanded Brown.  Then he marched off to the crossroads, finding his way in the blackness more by instinct and sense of direction than from any landmark, for even the road beneath his feet was barely visible.

“D’you mean to tell me that neither of you men can hear that sound?” he asked the sentries.

Both men listened intently, and presently one of them made out a very faint and distant noise, that did not seem to blend in with the other night-sounds.

“Might be a native drum?” he hazarded.

“No, ’tain’t!” said the other.  “I got it now.  It’s a horse galloping.  Tired horse, by the sound of him, and coming this way.  All right, Sergeant.”

“One of you go two hundred yards along the road, and form an advance-post, so to speak.  Challenge him the minute he’s within ear-shot, and shoot him if he won’t halt.  If he halts, pass him along to Number Two.  Number Two, pass him along to the guardroom, where I’ll deal with him!  Which of you’s Number One?  Number One, then—­forward—­ quick—­march!”