XXVIII. — BIRDS OF PREY.
Night came on. I left my horse at Mr. Alibi’s; set off on foot with Nighthawk; crossed the Rowanty, separating the opposing pickets, by a moss-covered log, in a shadowy nook, and was approaching the house in which Swartz was shut up.
Nighthawk moved with the stealthy and gliding step of a wildcat. I could see the man was a born scout; intended by nature for the calling he had adopted—secret service. He scarcely uttered a word; when he did, it was in tones so low that they were lost in the whisper of the wind, amid the great trailing vines depending from the trees, and I was compelled to lean my ear close to catch the words.
Fifty paces from the bank, a shadowy object on horseback was visible by the dim light.
“The vedette,” murmured Nighthawk, “but he need not see us.”
And plunging, or rather gliding into the shadow of the trees, he led the way without noise, to a point directly in rear of the vedette.
A hundred yards farther a fire twinkled; and around this fire were the dusky figures of men and horses. This was evidently the picket.
Three hundred paces to the left, rose a dark object, sombre and lugubrious against the night, which it exceeded in blackness. Only in the upper portion of the house, a dim light, like a star, glittered.
“Some one is yonder,” came from Nighthawk in a murmur as before, “let us go there, colonel.”