But his loyalty and his sense of duty were as adamant.
He had changed the double guard at the crossroads; and had posted
two fresh men by the mud-walled guardroom door. He had lit his pipe
for the dozenth time, and had let it go out again while he hummed
a verse of a Covenanters' hymn. And he had just started up to wall
over to the cell and make a cursory inspection of his prisoner, when
his ears caught a distant sound that was different from any of the
night sounds, though scarcely louder.
Prompt as a rifle in answer to the trigger, he threw himself down
on all fours, and laid his ear to the ground. A second later, he
was on his feet again.
"Guard!" he yelled. "Turn out!"
Cots squeaked and jumped, and there came a rush of hurrying feet.
The eight men not on watch ran out in single file, still buttoning
their uniforms, and lined up beside the two who watched the
guardroom door.
"Stand easy!" commanded Brown. Then he marched off to the crossroads,
finding his way in the blackness more by instinct and sense of direction
than from any landmark, for even the road beneath his feet was barely
visible.
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