The orchard at that instant awoke to sudden tumult. There were the thud
and scramble and scamper of feet, the mellow, swift clash of arms, men's
voices in question, oath, command, hurried and unhurried, resolute and
frantic. A horse sped along the road at a raging gallop. A loud voice
shouted, "What is it, Ferguson?" Another voice yelled something
incoherent. There was a sharp, discordant chorus of command. An
uproarious volley suddenly rang from the orchard. The prisoner in grey
moved from his intent, listening attitude. Instantly the eyes of the
sentry blazed, and he said with a new and terrible sternness: "Stand
where you are!"

The prisoner trembled in his excitement. Expressions of delight and
triumph bubbled to his lips. "A surprise, by Gawd! Now--now, you'll see!"

The sentry stolidly swung his carbine to his shoulder. He sighted
carefully along the barrel until it pointed at the prisoner's head,
about at his nose. "Well, I've got you, anyhow. Remember that! Don't
move!"

The prisoner could not keep his arms from nervously gesturing. "I
won't; but----"

"And shut your mouth!"

The three comrades of the sentry flung themselves into view. "Pete--
devil of a row!--can you----"

"I've got him," said the sentry calmly and without moving. It was as if
the barrel of the carbine rested on piers of stone. The three comrades