“And now this mining has altered everything,” mused Gwyn, “and—”
He started violently, sprang up, and looked about him, for his name had been uttered loudly close to his ear.
But all was still now, and a curious creepy sensation ran through him and made him shiver with apprehension—a strange, superstitious kind of apprehension, as if something invisible were close to him.
“What a cowardly donkey!” he muttered, for his name was uttered again, and plainly enough it came from Joe.
“Talking in his sleep; and I was ready to fancy it was something ‘no canny.’ Why I must have been dropping off to sleep, too, and it startled me into wakefulness. This won’t do. Sentries must not sleep at their posts.”
He began to do what the soldiers call “sentry go.” But in a few minutes he grew so weary and hot that he was glad to stop by his sleeping companion, and stand looking down at him lying so peacefully there with his head upon his hand.
“Just as if he were in a feather bed and with a soft pillow under his cheek. Wish I could lie down and have a nap for half-an-hour. I will, and then he can have another.”
Gwyn bent down to waken his companion, who just then burst out with a merry laugh.
“Oh, I say, father, you shouldn’t,” he said. “Just as if I didn’t take care. It isn’t—”
“Isn’t what, Joe?” said Gwyn, softly.