* * * * *

John Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift
men beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.

As he listened to the sergeant's tale, an agonising fear smote him for
his friend M'Alister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep
himself from the whiskey? Officers were making their rounds at very
short intervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his
post!

Close upon these thoughts came the jingling of the field officer's
sword, and the turn out of the guard. "Who goes there?"--"Rounds."--"What
rounds?"--"Grand rounds."--"Halt, grand rounds, advance one, and give the
counter-sign!" The familiar words struck coldly on John Broom's heart, as
if they had been orders to a firing party, and the bandage was already
across the Highlander's blue eyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at
the three roads to-night? He darted out into the snow.

He flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to where M'Alister was
on duty. It was a much shorter distance than by the road, which was
winding; but whether this would balance the difference between a horse's
pace and his own was the question, and there being no time to question,
he ran on.

He kept his black head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter,
clatter, jingle, jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still
frost on a level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on,
dodging under the hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and
by-and-by, the road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, _but