“I can offer you half my hard bed, Colonel; but the boys will have to take each a blanket and content themselves with the bare floor,” said Captain Bannister.
Again Justin bowed in silence. He could feed, because feeding is one of the absolute necessities of life; but he could not converse complacently with his captor.
The programme pointed out by Bannister was followed.
Justin Rosenthal laid down to take his night’s rest beside his guerrilla captor.
Hay wrapped himself in the blanket that was given him and stretched his chilled and tired frame upon the hearth before the fire.
But Wing went prowling about the room until he found a large closet; and then he asked permission to sleep within it. And as the closet communicated only with the room, and had no outlet by which the prisoner could escape, this permission was readily granted.
Only Hay was dissatisfied.
“It’s just like that sulky, unsocial fellow, Wing—always poking himself off by himself; and yes, by ganny! always finding a place to poke himself into besides,” growled the boy, as he settled himself to rest.
Fatigue is such a solicitor of sleep, that with a clear conscience and a sound constitution a tired man must sleep under the most inauspicious circumstances.
So Justin Rosenthal, despite his captivity, fell into a deep and dreamless slumber that lasted until morning, when the beating of the reveillé in the guerrilla camp aroused him. But even then, on first waking, he thought it was the reveillé of his own camp. And it was not until he saw his bedfellow rising that he recollected his circumstances.