CHAPTER XIII.
THE ALARM.
What’s the business
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The dwellers in the house?—Shakespeare.
The foe!—they come! they come!—Byron.
Elfie slept long and deeply. In the wild guerrilla camp something like military discipline was kept up, and at four o’clock the reveillé was beat; but even the sound of the rolling drum close under her windows failed to arouse this tired young sleeper.
Alberta arose, pale, weary and shivering, in the chilly dawn of the autumn morning.
She opened one of the windows, letting in the faint light of day, and the weight of a heavy dampness.
The storm had passed, the sky was clear, and the air was still; but the ground was strewn thickly with fallen leaves, the trees were bared and broken, and the rain drops hung glittering upon all.
Through the obscurity she could see the huts of the men with their dim fires hastily kindled to cook their breakfasts.