“Nat?” he said. “Who spoke of Nat? Here, where is he?”
“Are you awake?”
“Awake, sir? Yes, sir. I was dreaming about my brother Nat coming and interfering with our garden. Beg pardon, Master Fred, but I was dead asleep. Want me, sir? Your horse?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” cried Samson, “Ready in a minute.”
He was ready in less, for all the dressing he had to do consisted in buckling on the sword, which hung from a knot in the beech-tree, and sticking on his steel cap.
“Don’t ask questions, Samson, but come along.”
Fred led the way out of the camp and down by the lake, which he skirted till he had passed round the extreme end, when, to Samson’s astonishment, Fred struck out straight for the wilderness.
“We going to surprise them up at the Hall, sir, and take it all by ourselves?” Samson whispered at last, for he could contain himself no longer.
“No; I am going to surprise you, Samson,” was the reply, in a low whisper, as they went on, their way lying between two lines of sentinels, the outposts being posted further away, and those who hemmed in the little garrison being run right up as near as possible to the Hall, so as to guard against any sally or attempt at evasion.