“Shame!” said Lennox angrily.
“Perhaps so; but you might have let me finish—wounded again; not a bullet wound, but a good cut that will bleed well and take the bad blood out of him. We should hear no more of his fancies.”
“Drop that,” said Lennox sternly; and then, to change the conversation, “Surely it must be getting near daybreak.”
“Oh no; not yet. Let’s have another walk round, and a word with the men.”
This, one of many, was carried out, the young officers finding that there were no sleepers, the men not on the watch having, from the expectation that if there were an attack it would be about daybreak, instinctively roused up, every one being fully on the alert.
Lennox winced more than ever now as he stood in the trench they expected to be the likeliest, from its position, for the attack, for its capture would give the enemy a good point for further advances; and Captain Edwards had pointed it out to the major as being likely to be rushed, with the consequence that this part was the most strongly held, and the supporting party placed near.
And now, as Dickenson began whispering to his men, Lennox felt more bitterly than ever how thoroughly Roby’s charge had gone home. For whenever he spoke to one of the watch the answer was abrupt and cold, while with his companion the men were eager and ready to be questioned.
Everything possible had been done to guard against surprise, and the communication with the chain of outposts was constant; but the surprise came from where it was least expected, and just when the friends were standing together in the redoubt, with Dickenson grudgingly owning that the stars were perhaps not so bright.
“The night has passed more quickly than I expected it would,” whispered Lennox. “Can’t you feel what a chill there is in the air?”
“Ugh—yes!” said Dickenson, with a shiver. “It’s quite frosty out here.”