“In the cellar,” said Kretz, as he shot back a bolt, “they fired at us.”
“Maybe,” suggested Bat, “that volley ran them out of ammunition.”
“You do not know how much they are to be feared,” said the German, stubbornly. “I have served. I have seen danger. But,” and Bat saw his head shake, “never any like this.”
“To-night,” said the big man, “I feel like taking a chance. Stick around, will you, so you can let me in when I get back.”
Reluctantly the sergeant-major opened the gate; then he closed it promptly and Bat, from the outside, heard him refastening it.
“Is it that he is anxious that nothing should happen to me; or is it that he wants nothing to happen to something else?” reflected Bat, as he threw away the cigar, and stood by the gate looking away into the night. “Little anxieties like that might work both ways, as I’ve seen to my cost.”
Slowly and quietly he passed around the wall, and at a point overlooking the northwest he paused.
“The Potomac at its quietest could never compare with this,” said he, gently. “It’s as peaceful, apparently, as a pastoral on a post-card. All it needs is a glint of moon, a fleecy cloud, and a happy pair of lovers.”
It was a serene, quiet night; the wind from the northwest was but the merest puff; the shadowy hills lay long and looming on every side; the stars were few and seemed very far away.
“It’s on these still nights, though,” ruminated Bat, “that things that make a noise usually have their beginnings. Some wise old lad, in the days gone by, came through with a remark about the calm before the storm; and as an observer, I’ll say that he held aces. Because it’s always been my experience that your man always takes his longest rest before he comes at you with both hands swinging. So the right rule must be: the quieter the night, the wider you should keep your eyes open.”