nightlong vigil himself.

The night advanced, the darkness shredded away a little before a half
moon, and Henry was very glad that he had put out the last remnant of the
fire. Yet the trees still enclosed the hollow like a black wall, and he
did not think a foe had one chance in a thousand of finding them there
while the night lasted. But he never ceased to watch--a silent, powerful
figure, with the rifle lying across his lap, ready to be used at a
moment's notice. His stillness was something marvelous. Even had it been
light, an ordinary observer would not have seen him move a hair's breadth.
He was a part of the silent wilderness.

Midnight, and then the long hours. Faint noises arose in the thickets, bet
the ear of the gray statue was alive, and he knew. The rabbits were
hopping about, at play, perhaps, in the moonlight; a deer was passing;
perhaps a panther stirred somewhere; but these were things that neither he
nor Paul feared; it was only man that they dreaded. After a while a
faint, clear note rose, far to the east, and to it came three replies like
it, and also far away. Henry laughed low. They were the familiar signals,
but he and Paul were well hidden, and they would escape through the lines
before morning. They might easily go back to Wareville, too, but he was
resolved not to abandon either the horses or the powder. The powder was
needed at Marlowe, and it would be a bitter humiliation not to take it
there.

Two hours more passed, and then Henry heard the signals again, but now
closer. By chance, perhaps, the Shawnees had formed their ring about the
right place, and it was time to act. Paul had slept well and was rested,
so Henry leaned over and shook him. Paul opened his eyes, and any question
that he might have wished to ask was cut short at his lips by Henry's low,