ore a thunderstorm, and
I trod gently lest by breaking a twig or moving a stone I might set the
whole scene into some sort of tumultuous movement. Actually, no doubt,
it was nothing more than a result of overstrung nerves.

There was no more question of undressing and going to bed than there was
of undressing and going to bathe. Some sense in me was alert and
expectant. I sat in my tent and waited. And at the end of half an hour
or so my waiting was justified, for the canvas suddenly shivered, and
some one tripped over the ropes that held it to the earth. John Silence
came in.

The effect of his quiet entry was singular and prophetic: it was just as
though the energy lying behind all this stillness had pressed forward to
the edge of action. This, no doubt, was merely the quickening of my own
mind, and had no other justification; for the presence of John Silence
always suggested the near possibility of vigorous action, and as a
matter of fact, he came in with nothing more than a nod and a
significant gesture.

He sat down on a corner of my ground-sheet, and I pushed the blanket
over so that he could cover his legs. He drew the flap of the tent after
him and settled down, but hardly had he done so when the canvas shook a
second time, and in blundered Maloney.

"Sitting in the dark?" he said self-consciously, pushing his head
inside, and hanging up his lantern on the ridge-pole nail. "I just
looked in for a smoke. I suppose--"

He glanced round, caught the eye of Dr. Silence, and stopped. He put his
pipe back into his pocket and began to hum softly--that underbreath
humming of a nondescript melody I knew so well and had come to hate.

Dr. Silence leaned forward, opened the lantern and blew the light out.
"Speak low," he said, "and don't strike matches. Listen for sounds and
movements about the Camp, and be ready to follow me at a moment's
notice." There was light enough to distinguish our faces easily, and I
saw Maloney glance again hurriedly at both of us.

"Is the Camp asleep?" the doctor asked presently, whispering.

"Sangree is," replied the clergyman, in a voice equally low. "I can't
answer for the women; I think they're sitting up."

"That's for the best." And then he added: "I wish the fog would thin a
bit and let the moon through; later--we may want it."

"It is lifting now, I think," Maloney whispered back. "It's over the
tops of the trees already."

I cannot say what it was in this commonplace exchan