“Then you can’t go,” growled the sergeant. “Here, who is your father, young shaver?”
“Captain Carleton, of the 200th Regiment, sir,” said Phil, stoutly.
“The 200th Regiment, eh? I don’t know any Captain Carleton. But bring them along.”
The prisoners were marched off at once through the darkness towards where the fires were burning brightly, and after being challenged again and again, the sergeant led them to the front of a tent, out of which a couple of officers, evidently high in command, came quickly, and were about to hurry away, but stopped for a few moments to listen to the sergeant’s report.
“You are sure they have no despatch upon them?”
“Certain, sir. They have been searched twice.”
“Let them be detained,” said the officer, sharply.
The sergeant marched them off to a large tent, and into this the two prisoners were ushered, to find themselves in company with some half a dozen French soldiers, one of whom lay wounded and in pain upon a truss of straw at the side, the dim light from a lanthorn swinging from the tent pole striking strangely upon the man’s pallid face.
“There you are,” said the sergeant, cheerfully, “and I just give you both warning; there are about a dozen men on duty about this tent with orders to shoot down anyone who tries to escape. Eh, what say?”