was now eleven. He was
due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast as he could
go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by occasional glimpses
of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing a furlong from the
landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:

Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.

After ten seconds the answer came:

Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.

And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:

Hoo-ooo.

Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his arm.
It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with the meagre
information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made light of his
trouble--it was a mere scratch--and reminded them that their orders were
to make sure of the enemy's movements. Therefore, it was arranged that
Seymour take back Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to
complete his scouting.

By one o'clock he was again on the hill where he had marked the
horseman's outward flight and the escorted guns. Now, as he waited,
there were sounds in the north that faded, and in the south were similar
sounds that grew. Within an hour he was viewing a still larger body
of troops with drivers and wheels that clanked. There were only two
explanations possible: Either the British were concentrating on Chazy
Landing, where, protected from MacDonough by the north wind, they
could bring enough stores and forces from the north to march overland
independent of the ships, or else they were in full retreat for Canada.
There was but one point where this could be made sure, namely, at the
forks of the road in Chazy village. So he set out at a jog trot for
Chazy, six miles away.

The troops ahead were going three miles an hour. Rolf could go five.
In twenty minutes he overtook them and now was embarrassed by their
slowness. What should he do? It was nearly impossible to make speed
through the woods in the darkness, so as to pass them. He was forced to
content himself by marching a few yards in their rear.

Once or twice when a group fell back, he was uncomfortably close and
heard scraps of their talk.

These left little doubt that the army was in retreat. Still this was the
mere chatter of the ranks. He curbed his impatience and trudged with
the troop. Once a man dropped back to light his pipe. He almost touched
Rolf, and seeing a marching figure, asked in unmistakable accents "Oi
soi matey, 'ave ye a loight?"

Rolf assumed the low south coun