Fred made no reply to his follower’s paradoxical speech, but listened intently.
“Again,” he said, after a time; and the cry rang out, to be followed by a dull thud as of footsteps, and a clink of steel against steel.
Fred felt his arm grasped, and Samson’s hot breath in his ear.
“Keep quiet. There’s a sentry close by, and they’re going the rounds.”
The dull sound of footsteps died away, and not till then did Samson venture upon another call, that proved to be as unavailing as those which had preceded it.
“P’raps he’s asleep,” said Samson, softly; “but that ought to have roused him.”
Fred drew a long breath, as in imagination he saw the poor wounded fellow lying there in the dark and cold; and as a chilly perspiration bedewed his face, he felt a horrible feeling of reproach for not having given notice of an injured man lying in the wood. For he told himself, and the thought gathered strength, that perhaps they had come too late.
For a few minutes he could not speak, and when he did, his heart was beating heavily, as he whispered—
“Samson, do you think—?”
He could not finish the terrible sentence, one which his companion misconstrued.