The sentry—old, taciturn, and accustomed through long months to this warfare of the tongue—bided his time. He knew the habits of these spokesmen of Rigby's. When no answer came from the ramparts, further taunts and foul abuse swept upward from below. Still there was no reply, till the man, in a fierce rage of his own making, got up and showed head and shoulders above the trench. The sentry fired, without haste.
"One less," he growled. "It's queer to see a man go round and round like a spinning top before he tumbles out of sight."
"Was his news true?" asked Kit, dismayed by the tidings.
"Ah, that's to prove. Liars speak truth now and then. Stands to reason they must break into truth, just time and time, by chance."
Kit left the rampart presently, and found a hungry company of men at breakfast.
"Why so grave, Mr. Metcalf?" laughed Lady Derby, who was serving porridge from a great bowl of earthenware. "You are hungry, doubtless. There's nothing else brings such gravity as yours to a man's face."
"I was thinking of last night's sortie," said Kit.
"So that hunger, too, grows on you as on my other gentlemen? But, indeed, we propose to rest to-day. Even we have had enough, I think."
He told them the news shouted from the trenches. Rough-riding, zeal, and youth had given him a persuasiveness of his own. "The news may be true or false," he said, looking down at them from his full height; "but, either way, it will put heart into the enemy. By your leave, we must harass them."
He had his way, and, knowing it, sat down to a breakfast that astonished all onlookers.