Better the blade, the shot, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!
CHAPTER XII
THE FIGHT AT THE FORD
The sentry slackened his walk and rubbed his sleepy eyes. It was almost time for his relief. He glanced behind him at the motionless figures lying around the ashes of the camp fire. If it had been a bivouac of the dead the silence could not have been more profound. Even Lloyd had dropped into the heavy sleep that comes in the early hours of the morning. The guerilla gazed for a moment at the other sentries, dim shadowy forms in the early dawn; then continued on his way. He had almost reached the evergreen which marked the end of his patrol, when a faint, very faint, sound in the woods to his left caused him to wheel in that direction. Surely something moved among the trees. Instantly his challenge rang out:
"Who goes there? Halt! Halt! or I fire!"
A flash—a loud report! Tucker sprang to his feet as the camp awoke.
"Up, men, up!" he roared. "Secure the prisoners; then mount."