“What is it, Scruff?” cried Dallas. “Some one there?”
There was another deep-toned bark, and the dog sprang to the door and rose up on its hind-legs, tearing at the rug which covered it until it fell.
Scruff stood there with his head on one side, listening for some minutes, during which the silence was painful in the extreme. Dallas had sprung to one side of the door, Abel to the other, and they stood close up to the rough walls, the only place where they could be in safety, for there they were beyond the vision of any one who peered through the shuttered window or the apertures of the door left exposed by the tearing down of the rough hanging.
The simplest thing, and an act which would have left them more freedom, would have been to have quenched the fire at once. But there was no water at hand, and there was sufficient light from the glowing embers to expose every movement to an enemy without.
They stood there with every nerve on the strain, listening, while the dog whined uneasily, took a trot round the fire, and returned to the door, to stand with his head on one side again.
“There must be some one out there,” whispered Abel.
Dallas nodded, and made a sign to his cousin to be silent, for the dog whined uneasily again, turning to the young man, thrusting his muzzle against his hand, and looking up at him as if waiting for orders. The next moment he was at the door again, and reared up with his paws against the bar, at which he tore as if to get it down, so that he might go out into the night.
“Here, I know,” cried Abel excitedly, “he must hear or feel in some way that Tregelly is close here.”
“He would not come on at this time of night.”
“Why not? It’s as dark most of the day as it is now. Let’s open the door and give a hail.”