He was in the act of sheathing his blade, and had it half back in the scabbard, when the report of a carbine rang out across the barrack-yard.
Clang! went the sabre as the hilt was driven home, and, quick as thought, the young officer began to buckle on the belt; but before he had raised it to his waist another carbine raised the echoes of the place, the shouting for the guard to turn out followed through the open window, and, as soon as the belt was fastened, Dick caught at his sword, hooked it up, put on his cap, and hurried down.
“That you?” cried Wyatt from out of the darkness.
“Yes. What’s the matter? Enemy?”
“Enemy! Nonsense! Black Bob again for a tenner.”
The lieutenant was right, as they found after doubling to the cells. The prisoner had broken out again after once more outwitting the sentry and knocking him down: and, worse still, they found on reaching the gateway, where a sergeant, along with the guard, was standing with a couple of lanterns, that the sentry had been knocked down there as well, and the prisoner had passed out.
Wyatt heard all this as they came up, the sergeant being engaged in bullying the second sentry with all his might.
“You might have stopped him if you had tried, you mop-headed idiot!” cried the sergeant.
“How was I to stop him?” retorted the man. “I gave the alarm.”
“And let the prisoner escape. It was your duty to have fired at him,” roared the sergeant. “I want to know what the officers are going to say.”