“Who goes there?”
He never heard it. Even the old, long-accustomed habits of a soldier's obedience were killed in him.
“Who goes there?” the challenge rang again.
Still he never heard, but went on blindly. From where the tents stood there was a stronger breadth of light through which he had passed, and was passing still—a light strong enough for it to be seen whence he came, but not strong enough to show his features.
“Halt, or I fire!” The sentinel brought the weapon to his shoulder and took a calm, close, sure aim. He did not speak; the password he had forgotten as though he had never heard or never given it.
Another figure than that of the soldier on guard came out of the shadow, and stood between him and the sentinel. It was that of Chateauroy; he was mounted on his gray horse and wrapped in his military cloak, about to go the round of the cavalry camp. Their eyes met in the wavering light like the glow from a furnace-mouth: in a glance they knew each other.
“It is one of my men,” said the chief carelessly to the sentinel. “Leave me to deal with him.”
The guard saluted, and resumed his beat.
“Why did you refuse the word, sir?”
“I did not hear.”