For another half-hour the pair lay listening to the engagement going on, till it seemed as if the daylight below would never come. Then the darkness gave way, to display far below a cold grey mist, through which clouds of smoke were softly rising; and Bracy brought his glass to bear upon the fight still raging furiously, and looked in silence till Gedge turned to him:
“Oh, do say something, sir! Our lads—they ain’t being cut up, sir, are they?”
“No, no, I think not, my lad; but I can hardly make out what is going on at present. Ha! it’s gradually growing lighter there. The enemy are not where they were last night, and the troops are there.”
“Then they’ve took the beggars’ camp, sir?”
“That does not follow,” said Bracy, whose eyes were glued to his glass.—“I can make out the white-coats now. They have divided, and are upon the rising ground all round. Our poor fellows must have fallen into a trap.”
“No, sir; no, sir, they couldn’t, sir,” cried Gedge; “they’d have seen that fire and known there was an enemy.”
“Yes, I forgot the fire,” said Bracy. “Oh, if the sun would only shine down upon them now!”
“But he won’t, sir; he never will when he’s wanted to. He won’t shine there for an hour yet.”
“Yes—no—yes—no,” panted Bracy at slow intervals; and Gedge wrung his hands, like a woman in trouble, whimpering out:
“Oh! who’s to know what that means, with his ‘Yes—no—yes—no’? Mr Bracy, sir, do—do say that our lads are whipping the beggars back.”