“Father,” said Fred, “if you could help a suffering enemy now, would you do it?”
“If it was such help as my duty would allow—yes; if not, no. Recollect, we are not our own masters, but servants of the country. Good night, my boy. I think you may sleep in peace to-night;” and he strode out of the little tent, where his seat had been a horseman’s cloak thrown over a box.
“Sleep!” said Fred to himself, “with those poor fellows starving in that hole. I must, I will help them, and ask his forgiveness later on. But how?”
“Pst! ciss!” came from the back of the tent.
Chapter Forty Nine.
Samson is not to be Beaten.
“What’s that? Who’s there?” said Fred, sharply.
“Pst! Master Fred. Don’t make all that noise. You’ll have the guard hear you.”