“Hush!” said the other below his breath. “There’s about a dozen men out there, judging by the footfalls. I heard them coming.”
“Let’s fire into the tent and be done with it,” said a voice outside.
“No, no,” cried another; “no man shoot. It makes too much noise, and there must be others about. Have ye all got yer bayonets fixed?”
There was a murmur, apparently in the affirmative.
“Very well, then. Murphy and O’Rourick, come round to this side. You three stay where you are. Tim, you go to that end; and, Doolin, come with me.”
“The Fenian army, by all the gods!” whispered Yates, groping for his clothes. “Renny, give me that revolver, and I’ll show you more fun than a funeral.”
“No, no. They’re at least three to our one. We’re in a trap here, and helpless.”
“Oh, just let me jump out among ‘em and begin the fireworks. Those I didn’t shoot would die of fright. Imagine scouts scouring the woods with a lantern—with a lantern, Renny! Think of that! Oh, this is pie! Let me at ‘em.”
“Hush! Keep quiet! They’ll hear you.”
“Tim, bring the lantern round to this side.” The blur of light moved along the canvas. “There’s a man with his back against the wall of the tent. Just touch him up with your bayonet, Murphy, and let him know we’re here.”