As they started away, Cobb turned to the glass window, raised his hand gently toward his old quarters and murmured sadly: “Good-bye! good-bye!”
Away they rattled down the road toward the main gate.
“It’s a bad night, Craft.” Cobb’s voice was hard and forced, but it was evident that he was desirous of bringing his thoughts to other things.
“Yes, indeed it is; but good for us, nevertheless. How much warmer and drier are we in this hack than if we were outside to-night!” trying to put his thoughts into another channel.
“Number two! Half-past eleven o’clock—and all’s well!”
“Number three! Half-past eleven o’clock—and all’s well!”
And the cry was repeated on to all the posts, the answers coming clear and sweet to this poor, departing soul.
As the last sentinel gave his call, the carriage passed through the outer gate by the main guardhouse, where number one was walking his lonely and solitary beat. As they passed the porch, the sentinel repeated the round of posts, crying, in a sharp and pleasing tone:
“A-l-l’s well!”