CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LONG NIGHT.
Then followed the blackest hours of Jack’s life. Outside the sentries kept up their eternal pacing. In the distance a dog barked, and there was still scattered firing. For a long time the unfortunate young wireless man sat huddled on the floor of his prison in a sort of torpor.
All at once he recollected that one of his guards spoke English. Perhaps he could get the loan of pen or pencil and paper to write some last words. But when hammering at the door for some moments brought a response, his request was gruffly refused. The sentry resumed his measured pacing.
One—two! One—two! Hour after hour the sound beat into Jack’s brain till he thought his head would burst.
The sound of digging! The blows of a mattock!
A cold perspiration broke out on Jack’s forehead as he realized the import of this. They were digging his grave, and by a refinement of cruelty, within earshot of his prison place. Whether by accident or design, poor Jack was being forced to hearken to the most grisly of the preparations for the next morning’s reveille.
So the hours crept by leaden-footed. Sleep was out of the question as much as was possibility of escape. The sound of the digging, which Jack had stopped his ears to keep out, had ceased.
Then came a sudden stir outside. The sound of hurrying feet and commands barked in sharp, quick voices. Jack’s heart gave a bound.
Could it be a detachment of Belgians summoned by Tom and Bill coming to wipe out the small force occupying the farm?