He glanced at Allen. The lad's figure was more distinct, and the sentry saw that he was leaning slightly forward, his hand to his ear. So he, too, had heard that soft stir, and was still unsatisfied.
Then, as the sentry watched his young comrade, the thick darkness yielded to the touch of the invisible day, and the black curtain was changed to sullen grey.
Again a sigh of relief passed the sentry's lips as he swung round to his front. Light was coming at last and—— Ah! Look!
No sound this time. Something crept stealthily, slowly—how slowly!—towards him. Something crouched close to the cleared ground and moved with infinite patience through the fern.
"My God! They're on us!"
With the exclamation—perhaps it was also a prayer—the sentry threw forward his musket and fired—hurriedly, blindly, hitting no one; and the report was almost drowned in the wild uproar which instantly followed.
The sentry shrieked a warning; the men of the picket discharged their muskets and swung them up by the barrel, as half a hundred naked Maori, upspringing from the fern, yelled and howled with fury, realising that they had been seen just a moment too soon.
But one sound topped all others. Clear and shrill on the air of that pallid morning rang the notes of the "alarm," as young Allen blew with all the power of his lungs—not so much to summon, as to save, his sleeping comrades.
Down went the sentry with a bullet in his brain. The men of the picket reeled to the ground shot, or stabbed, or tomahawked, and still young Allen blew—"Awake! Awake!"
A huge Maori rushed at him and snatched at the bugle. Still holding the mouthpiece to his lips, Allen dodged him and—ran? No; stood still and blew, clear and sharp, "Awake! Awake!"