“Faix, if the commandant has any more complimints to waste on thim Injun gossoons,” he remarked, as he stood, panting and puffing, under the archway while the guard clustered at gaze in the big door of the guard-house, “by the howly poker, he may pursint them in person! For the divil be in ivery fut I’ve got if I go a-nigh them cu’rus bogies agin! They ain’t human. Wait, me b’ye, till I git me breath, an’ I’ll give ye the countersign, if I haven’t forgot ut. I’m constructively on the outside yit, seein’ ye cannot let me in till I gives ye the countersign.”
There was a low-toned murmur.
“Pass, friend,” said the sentinel.
“Thankin’ ye fur nothin’,” the quarter-master-sergeant rejoined as he paused under the archway to gaze back over the snow.
“If Robin Dorn ain’t a frog or a tadpole to grow a new laig if one is pulled off,” he remarked, “he’ll hardly make the fort to-night.”
The sentinel, left alone at the gate, peered out into the bleak dark waste. All suggestion of light had faded from the sky, and that the ground was white showed only where the yellow gleams from the doors and windows of the fort fell upon the limited space of the snowy parade. Soon these dwindled to a lantern in front of the silent barracks and a vague glimmer from the officers’ mess-hall, where the great fire was left all solitary to burn itself out. A light still shone through the windows of the commandant’s quarters, where he was entertaining company at cards. But otherwise the fort was lapsing to quiescence and slumber.
A wind began to stir in the woods. More than once the sentinel heard the dull thud of falling masses of snow and the clashing together of bare boughs. Then the direction of the current of the air changed; it wavered and gradually its force failed, a deep stillness ensued and absolute darkness prevailed. The sound of crunching, as wolves or dogs gnawed, snarling, the bones of the deer that the vagrant savages had killed beyond the abattis, was distinct to his ear. It was a cold night and a dreary. The vigilance of watching with naught in expectation is a strain upon the attention which a definite menace does not exert. There was now no thought of danger from the Indians, who were fast declining from the character of warriors and marauders to that of mendicants and aimless intruders and harmless pests. The soldier knew his duty and was prepared to do it, but to maintain a close guard in these circumstances was a vexatious necessity. He paced briskly up and down to keep his blood astir.
A break in the dull monotony can never be so welcome as to a dreary night-watch. He experienced a sense of absolute pleasure in the regulation appearance of the officer of the day, crossing the parade and challenged by the sentinel before the guard-house door. The brisk turning out of the guard was like a reassurance of the continued value and cheer of life. The flare from the guard-house door showed the lines of red uniforms, the glitter of the bayonets, the muskets carried at “shoulder arms!” the officer of the guard, Raymond, at his post, and the sergeant advancing to the stationary figure, waiting in the snow. He watched the familiar scene, on which in the day-time he would not have bestowed a glance, as if it had some new and eager significance—so do trifles of scant interest fill the void of mental inactivity.
The crisp young voices were musical to his ear as they rang out in the night with the stereotyped phrases. “Advance, officer of the day, and give the countersign!” cried the sergeant. Then as Mervyn advanced and a whispered colloquy ensued, the dapper sergeant whirled briskly, smartly saluting the officer of the guard with the cry—as of discovery—“The countersign is right!”
“Advance officer of the day,” said Raymond.