There in the courtyard, backed by the dark shadows, stood the six guns, looking pearl-grey with dew, and by them the fine, stalwart figure of one of the gunners in fatigue uniform, his sabre hooked up and carbine resting in the hollow of his arm, marching slowly up and down.
Away to the left was the lofty, dark arch of the gateway, made high enough to allow for the passage of a fully caparisoned elephant with the roofed howdah and ornament; and there, too, was a sentry pacing his beat at right angles to the man by the guns, who for some reason once more attracted Dick.
He stood gazing hard at the man, trying to make out his features; but it was too dark yet.
“It must be,” thought Dick; “and—yes, that settles it—he limps slightly. It is Hanson.”
Dick began to wonder whether the man would keep to his promise; and somehow the recollection of all that had passed kept the thinker’s brain actively employed during the time he was dressing, with the full intention of taking advantage of the cool freshness of the morning to have a stroll about the place.
By the time he was dressed the men were giving the final touches to the guns, which glistened in the morning sunshine, free from every speck of dust; from the long double range of stables the whinnying and stamping of horses was heard, while the camp-servants and others were busily rearranging the baggage and ammunition-wagons along the front of the stabling, formerly, no doubt, the site of much more important buildings.
The first man he met on descending to the courtyard was Sergeant Stubbs, who looked full of business, but found time to salute.
“Was not that Hanson on guard by the guns, Sergeant?” asked Dick.
“Yes, sir,” said the old sergeant, shaking his head. “It’s him, and it ain’t him, if you can understand that.”
“Find him changed?” said Dick eagerly.