When the man they had relieved had gone down and all was still again,
Mr. Welch and Harold stood listening intently.

"Jackson was right," the farmer said; "there is something in the air.
I can feel it rather than hear it. It is a sort of murmur no louder
than a whisper. Do you hear it, Harold?"

"I seem to hear something," Harold said. "It might be the sound of
the sea a very long way off, just as one can hear it many miles from
the coast, on a still night at home. What do you think it is?"

"If it is not fancy," Mr. Welch replied, "and I do not think that we
should all be deceived, it is an attack upon Gloucester."

"But Gloucester is thirty-five miles away," Harold answered.

"It is," Mr. Welch replied; "but on so still a night as this sounds
can be heard from an immense distance. If it is not this, I cannot
say what it is."

Upon the following night, just as Mr. Welch's watch was at an end, a
low whistle was heard near the gate.

"Who is there?" Mr. Welch at once challenged.

"Jack Pearson, and the sooner you open the gate the better. There's
no saying where these red devils may be lying round."

Harold and the farmer instantly ran down and opened the gate.