And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated, and answered by a kind of report, but almost indistinguishable, for the storm was raging with renewed violence. McNabbs and John Mangles could not hear themselves speak. They went for comfort under the shelter of the wagon.
At this moment the leather curtains were raised and Glenarvan rejoined his two companions. He too had heard this ill-boding whistle, and the report which echoed under the tilt. “Which way was it?” asked he.
“There,” said John, pointing to the dark track in the direction taken by Mulrady.
“How far?”
“The wind brought it; I should think, three or four miles, at least.”
“Come,” said Glenarvan, putting his gun on his shoulder.
“No,” said the Major. “It is a decoy to get us away from the wagon.”
“But if Mulrady has even now fallen beneath the blows of these rascals?” exclaimed Glenarvan, seizing McNabbs by the hand.
“We shall know by to-morrow,” said the Major, coolly, determined to prevent Glenarvan from taking a step which was equally rash and futile.
“You cannot leave the camp, my Lord,” said John. “I will go alone.”