At length there came the sound of retreating footsteps, and then all was quiet.
"He is either dead or a prisoner," said Colonel Firestone, who, clad in nothing but his invariable jackboots, long cloak, and steel headpiece, had been one of the first of the sleeping garrison to arrive on the scene.
"If he be a prisoner, we must rescue him," I cried.
"Who's for a rescue party?"
Several men signified their willingness to attempt the hazardous work, but Firestone refused to listen to the proposal, pointing out the hopelessness of the undertaking, when by now my companion, if not dead, would be beyond help within the rebels' lines.
While we were still debating, there came the report of a musket from the gatehouse; and fearing another attack, half of our party hurried to the spot.
"There's a knocking at the postern, sir," explained the sentry, "but I wouldn't open it."
"Quite right, quite right," replied Firestone, and striding over to the wicket, he threw open a sliding hatch; then, keeping well to the side for fear of a treacherous shot, he demanded, "Who goes there?"
"'Tis I, Granville," came my comrade's well-known voice.
With a shout of delight I made to unbar the gate, but Firestone laid a detaining hand on my arm.