The challenge rang on the air:
"Who goes there?"
He never heard it. Even the old, long-accustomed habits of a soldier's
obedience were killed in him.
"Who goes there?" the challenge rang again.
Still he never heard, but went on blindly. From where the tents stood
there was a stronger breadth of light through which he had passed, and
was passing still--a light strong enough for it to be seen whence he
came, but not strong enough to show his features.
"Halt, or I fire!" The sentinel brought the weapon to his shoulder and
took a calm, close, sure aim. He did not speak; the password he had
forgotten as though he had never heard or never given it.
Another figure than that of the soldier on guard came out of the shadow,
and stood between him and the sentinel. It was that of Chateauroy; he
was mounted on his gray horse and wrapped in his military cloak, about
to go the round of the cavalry camp. Their eyes met in the wavering
light like the glow from a furnace-mouth: in a glance they knew each
other.
"It is one of my men," said the chief carelessly to the sentinel. "Leave
me to deal with him."
The guard saluted, and resumed his beat.
"Why did you refuse the word, sir?"
"I did not hear."
There was no reply.
"Why are you absent from your squadron?"
There was no reply still.
"Have you no tongue, sir? The stick shall soon make you speak! Why are
you here?"
There was again no answer.
Chateauroy's teeth ground out a furious oath; yet a flash of brutal
delight glittered in his eyes.
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