“Is it near morning, Brace?” I said.
“It must be; but try and go to sleep again, lad. If it is only for one hour, it will do you good, and make you fresher for the day’s work.”
“You think I need not mind sleeping?”
“Not in the least, lad. There is no danger till daybreak, and I am afraid not then, for our enemies are miles away by now.”
He was silent, and I lay listening to the old man’s hubble-bubble for a time, till a delicious feeling of repose stole over me, and the next thing I heard was the chattering song of minahs—the Indian starlings—in the trees somewhere outside of the hovel where I lay, and, on opening my eyes, they rested on the ancient face of the old man, squatting down on his heels at a short distance from the foot of my bedstead, the level rays of the sun pleasantly lighting up his calm old face; and as he saw that I was looking at him, he rose to his feet and salaamed to me.
“It is morning, sahib,” he said in Hindustani.
“Eh, morning?” cried Brace, springing up. “Thank Heaven! Now, Gil, lad, for the work of another day.”