“What shall be our next move?” asked Henry, feeling that the sharpshooter was the leader.
“Better stay here until to-morrow night,” answered Silvers.
“As long as that!”
“Why not? It’s more comfortable here than in prison, and by to-morrow night the excitement will have blown over and we’ll have a much better chance to get away than we’ll have now.”
Henry could not help but see the force of this argument. Yet to wait twenty-four hours under such circumstances appeared to be a never-ending period of time.
Slowly the balance of the night wore away and day came on. A farmhand came to feed the horses and hitch one to a cart, and a maid came out to milk three cows, but otherwise they did not see or hear a soul. As she worked around the milk house the maid sang a gay song in French, as if no such thing as a war existed.
“It takes a French girl to do that,” observed Silvers. “No English girl could sing so happily with danger at the very door of the home.”
“The French are a gay people,” answered Henry. “But, just the same, they can fight when they want to.”
At last the sun went down and night came on. They had eaten the last of the food brought along, and Silvers had long since finished his bottle of wine. It was somewhat cloudy, which promised to be in their favor.
“Now we’ll see what fate has in store for us,” said Silvers, after a long look around the outbuildings. “Shall I carry the musket, or will you?”