storm, but the men slept heavily on.

Dick knew that the sentinels were awake and watchful. They had a
wholesome dread of Forrest and Wheeler, those wild riders of the South.
Some of them had been present at that terrible surprise in Tennessee,
and they were not likely to be careless when they were sure that Forrest
might be near, but he remained uneasy nevertheless, and, although he
closed his eyes and sought a soft place for his head on the saddle,
sleep did not come.

He was sure that his apprehension did not come from any fear of an attack
by Forrest or Wheeler. It was deeper-seated. The inherited sense
that belonged to his great grandfather, who had lived his life in the
wilderness, was warning him. It was not superstition. It seemed to
Dick merely the palpable result of an inheritance that had gone into the
blood. His famous great-grandfather, Paul Cotter, and his famous friend,
Henry Ware, had lived so much and so long among dangers that the very air
indicated to them when they were at hand.

Dick looked down the long piazza, so long that the men at either end of
it were hidden by darkness. The tall trees in the grounds were nodding
before the wind, and the lightning flashed incessantly in the southwest.
The thunder was not loud, but it kept up a continuous muttering and
rumbling. The rain was coming in fitful gusts, but he knew that it would
soon drive hard and for a long time.

Everybody within Dick's area of vision was sound asleep, except himself.
Colonel Winchester lay with his head on his arm and his slumber was so
deep that he was like one dead. Warner had not stirred a particle in the
last half-hour. Dick was angry at himself because he could not sleep.