It must have been nearly twelve o’clock, when Norman was wishing that the Dutch clock in the corner had not been stopped on account of its striking, for the silence was growing more and more painful, and he was wondering how it would be possible to keep up for hours longer. He felt no desire for sleep; on the contrary, his nerves were strained to their greatest tension, and he could hear sounds outside as if they had been magnified—the chirp of some grasshopper-like insect, or the impatient stamp of a horse in the enclosure, being quite startling.
But there was nothing to report. He could easily find an explanation for every sound, even to the creaking noise which he felt sure was caused by one of the cows rubbing itself against the rough fence.
Rifle was watching now at the narrow slit, but there was nothing to see, “except darkness,” he whispered to his brother, “and you can’t see that.”
And then, as he sat there for another half-hour, Norman began once more to envy the black, who seemed to be sleeping easily and well, in spite of the danger which might be lurking so near.
But he was misjudging the black: Shanter was never more wide awake in his life, and the proof soon came. All at once there was a faint rustling from near the fireplace apparently, and Rifle turned sharply, but did not speak, thinking that Norman and his cousin had changed places.
Norman heard the sound too, and gave the credit to Tim, who in turn made sure that his cousin had lain down to sleep. So no one spoke, and the rustling was heard again, followed now sharply by a quick movement, a horrible yell, a rushing sound, and then the sickening thud of a heavy blow. Before the boys could quite grasp what it meant, there was a sharp rattling, as if a big stick was being rapidly moved in the chimney, then another yell, a fresh rattling as of another great stick against the stone sides of the chimney, with a heavy thumping overhead.
Norman grasped the position now in those quick moments, and, gun in hand, dashed to the chimney, cannoning against Rifle and then against some one else, for he had tripped over a soft body. Before he could recover himself there was a deafening roar, and the sour odour of powder began to steal to his nostrils as he listened to a rustling sound as of something rolling over the split wood slabs which roofed the place, followed by a heavy fall close under the window.
“What is it, boys?” cried the captain at the door, for all had passed so rapidly that the episode was over before he reached the kitchen.
“Black fellow come along,” said Shanter, quietly. “Mine mumkull.”
“Through the window?” cried the captain, reproachfully, advancing into the kitchen. “Oh, boys! Ah!”—he stumbled and nearly fell—“wounded? Who is this?”