Thirty-six hours now had Natzie been a prisoner behind the bars, and
no one of those we know had seen her face. At tattoo the drums and
fifes began their sweet, old-fashioned soldier tunes. The guard turned
out; the officer of the day buckled his belt with a sigh and started
forth to inspect, just as the foremost soldiers appeared on the porch
in front, buttoning their coats and adjusting their belts and slings.
Half their number began to form ranks; the other half "stood by,"
within the main room, to pass out the prisoners, many of whom wore a
clanking chain. All on a sudden there arose a wild clamor--shouts,
scuffling, the thunder of iron upon resounding woodwork, hoarse
orders, curses, shrieks, a yell for help, a shot, a mad scurry of many
feet, furious cries of "Head 'em off!" "Shoot!" "No, no, don't shoot!
You'll kill our own!" A dim cloud of ghostly, shadowy forms went
tearing away down the slope toward the south. There followed a
tremendous rush of troop after troop, company after company,--the
whole force of Camp Sandy in uproarious pursuit,--until in the dim
starlight the barren flats below the post, the willow patches along
the stream, the plashing waters of the ford, the still and glassy
surface of the shadowy pool, were speedily all alive with dark and
darting forms intermingled in odd confusion.
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