“Look here, sir,” he said; “mortal natur’ won’t bear it. I’ll take a trot up and down now while you sleep.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” said Mark, shortly.
“Begging your pardon, sir, you are,” said Tom; and he took a few turns up and down, to return at last and find Mark quite fast.
“I knowed it,” he said to himself, but he had hardly thought this when Mark started up again, vexed with himself, but unable to control the desire for rest.
The consequence was that during the next two hours this natural process went on, the one who sat down going off instantly to sleep, while the other kept up his sentry-like walk, and no more words were uttered respecting it. They felt that it was nature’s work and accepted their position till toward midnight, when Mark was resting with his back to the bulwark, and his chin upon his breast, sleeping heavily, as he had been for about a minute. Tom Fillot stepped up lightly to his side and touched him.
“Yes? What?” cried Mark, starting up in alarm.
“Hist, sir! Steady! They’re a-breaking out.”
“What!” said Mark, in an awe-stricken whisper, as his hands involuntarily sought pistol and dirk.
“Hark!” came in a whisper to his ear; and leaning forward and peering into the darkness, he distinctly heard at intervals a faint, dull clink, as if some one were very carefully and slowly moving pieces of iron.
For the moment, half drowsed still by his desire for sleep, Mark could not make out what it meant. Then he grasped the meaning of the sound.