"Stand, grand rounds! Advance, sergeant, with the countersign!" came the distant challenge again.
"Now," muttered Mount, leaping softly to the turf, "when I call, ride up to me. Hark for a whippoorwill!"
He vanished in the darkness. I waited, scarcely breathing.
"He won't kill him," whispered the Weasel; "you will see, Mr. Cardigan, how it's done. He'll get behind him—patience, patience—pst!—there!"
A stifled cry, suddenly choked, came out of the night; the lanthorn at the toll-gate went out and the toll-house door slammed.
"It's the keeper barricading himself," whispered Renard; "he thinks the sentry has been surprised and scalped. Hush! Mount is calling."
"Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!" throbbed the whimpering, breathless call across the meadow; the Weasel answered it, and we trotted on until a dark shape rose up in the road and caught at the leaders, drawing them to a stand-still.
"'Nother firelock," said Mount, shoving the weapon into the chaise and going back to the horses. "Here's the post-road; I'll guide you into it." And he started east through a wall of shadow.
"Where's the sentry?" whispered Renard.
"In the ditch with his coat tied over his head and my new hanker in his mouth. The frightened fool bit me so I scalped him—"