All this time, everything without the palisades lay in the silence of nature.  The sun cast its glories athwart the lovely scene, as in one of the Sabbaths of the woods; but man was nowhere visible.  Not a hostile Indian, or white, exhibited himself; and the captain began to suspect that, satisfied with their captures, the party had commenced its return towards the river, postponing his own arrest for some other occasion.  So strong did this impression become towards the close of the day, that he was actually engaged in writing to some friends of influence in Albany and on the Mohawk to interpose their names and characters in his son’s behalf, when the serjeant, about nine o’clock, the hour when he had been ordered to parade the guard for the first half of the night, presented himself at the door of his room, to make an important report.

“What now, Joyce?” demanded the captain.  “Are any of our fellows sleepy, and plead illness?”

“Worse than that, your honour, I greatly fear,” was the answer.  Of the ten men your honour commanded me to detail for the guard, five are missing.  I set them down as deserters.”

“Deserters!—­This is serious, indeed; let the signal be made for a general parade—­the people cannot yet have gone to bed; we will look into this.”

As Joyce made it matter of religion “to obey orders,” this command was immediately put in execution.  In five minutes, a messenger came to summon the captain to the court, where the garrison was under arms.  The serjeant stood in front of the little party, with a lantern, holding his muster-roll in his hand.  The first glance told the captain that a serious reduction had taken place in his forces, and he led the serjeant aside to hear his report.

“What is the result of your inquiries, Joyce?” he demanded, with more uneasiness than he would have liked to betray openly.

“We have lost just half our men, sir.  The miller, most of the Yankees, and two of the Dutchmen, are not on parade; neither is one of them to be found in his quarters.  They have either gone over to the enemy, captain Willoughby, or, disliking the appearance of things here, they have taken to the woods for safety.”

“And abandoned their wives and children, serjeant!  Men would scarcely do that.”

“Their wives and children have deserted too, sir.  Not a chick or child belonging to either of the runaways is to be found in the Hut.”

Chapter XIX.

  “For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
  Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.”

  Richard III

This was startling intelligence to receive just as night had shut in, and under the other circumstances of the case.  Touching the men who still remained, captain Willoughby conceived it prudent to inquire into their characters and names, in order to ascertain the ground he stood on, and to govern his future course accordingly.  He put the question to the serjeant, therefore, as soon as he could lead him far enough from the little array, to be certain he was out of ear-shot.