It was, of course, absurd
to suppose that Pierre was undertaking this hazardous
and philanthropical job on his own account. What else
save love could work such wonders?
"Sar-jean, Sar-jean, you ready now?" asked Pierre,
impatiently, preparing to pull up the poles.
But Pasmore hesitated. Was he not imperilling the safety
of Douglas and his daughter by following so soon after
them? For, should they not have got quite clear of the
settlement, the hue and cry would be raised and scouts
would be sent out all around to cut off their retreat.
He thought of Dorothy. No, he could not in his sober
senses risk such a thing.
"Sar-jean, Sar-jean!"
But just at that moment, somewhere over in the village,
there was a wild outbreak of noise, the sound of
rifle-firing being predominant.
The straw was quickly pushed back over the poles and some
_debris_ and snow scooped over that At the same moment
the door was thrown open and his two guards entered; but
they came no farther than the doorway. One of them struck
a light, and immediately lit some hemp-like substance he
carried in his hand. It flared up instantly, illuminating
the long barn from end to end.
"Hilloa! you thar?" cried one of them.
But it was unnecessary to have asked such a question,
for the light disclosed the form of the sergeant re-seated
on the upturned pail, with his head resting on his hands.
He appeared to be asleep.
Evidently satisfied with their scrutiny his guards again
turned towards the door to find out, if possible, the
reason of the firing.
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