Graeme made no answer, but rode away, with a cynical look on his face, for he had seen the speaker amongst his late audience, as sullen-looking and mutinous as any; but there was no purpose to be gained by alluding to that now. He passed on, through the lines of tents—alive with men, polishing, cleaning, now and again bursting into snatches of song—and made his way back to his tent, where he found Glover awaiting him, with a face of contrition.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I didn't know you were going out, or I'd have been ready. I tried to find you, but no one knew where you had gone."
"I didn't want you, Bobby," answered Graeme. "I shan't till ten to-night. Be here then with the horses and one orderly. I don't wish a crowd."
"Your dinner, sir?"
"Bring a bottle when you come. I shan't want anything till then. I'm going to sleep." He turned into the tent, closed the flap, and lying down on the bed, covered himself with rugs and blankets. "Stara," he murmured, "I want sleep; give it to me." He sighed, smiled happily, and then almost instantly fell asleep.
* * * * *
Darkness fell, and confused sounds began to arise from the camp. They soon swelled to a clamour: words of command were heard; the clang of rifle-butts; then the steady tramp of marching feet and the rumble of passing wheels. The army was starting on its way. The hours flew by, the beat of feet and rattle of wheels died to a dull murmur, and ceased.
The heap of rugs stirred and were cast aside. Graeme got up, unfastened the tent-flaps, and looked out.
The muffling canopy of storm-clouds was gone from overhead, leaving the black vault a-glitter with a myriad points of flame. It was Christmas Eve and freezing hard.
Through the darkness a figure loomed dimly, its footsteps crushing the rapidly hardening ground.