“Poh!  Job Bloyce,” answered a voice.  “You know my croak as well as your own; but babes and sucklings must be taught, and it is regular, so I will let you know lest you may have forgotten—­the sling of David.”

“Always full of thy nonsense,” said Bloyce.  “But what made thee so late?”

“Late is it?  It can be but a matter of ten minutes past twelve, and it takes a little while to rub one’s eyes and get them open after being called.  Hast seen or heard anything on thy watch?”

“Nothing.  I had better have been in my warm bed and asleep, considering the hoeing I must give my corn-field to-morrow, than be watching a skeary Indian and a woman.”

“Thou hast little need to trouble thy gizzard on that score,” returned Cowlson; “for, an’ I mistake not greatly, the rain will fall heavy enough to spoil thy chance at hoeing.  It is blacker than the darkness in Egypt.  I cannot see the tip of thy nose.”

“That is of no consequence.  My nose is a white nose and no Indian’s, and I take it that it is for the copper skins you are to watch.”

“And they will be still harder to be seen.  But I care not.  I am good for ten Indians any day, though I expect not that they will venture to sneak into our streets, be it light or dark.”

“Nevertheless, keep your eyes open, for thou mayest need them; so good night.”

“Good night, and shut thine own, so soon as Dame Bloyce will permit thee.”

The two knew not, so dark was the night, that a third person stood so near to them that he had overheard the whole of their dialogue.  Soon after the departure of the first sentinel, his successor, Cowlson, seemed to consider it of very little importance to make his rounds with much diligence, and to be more intent on protecting himself from the rain, which began to fall, than to perform his duty.  He, therefore, after a few turns, ensconced himself as comfortably as possible on the lee side of the building during the violence of the storm, taking advantage of occasional intermissions to resume his walk.  The stranger waited until the little vigilance of the sentinel was relaxed, and, noting exactly the place where he had bestowed himself, stole noiselessly back to a group of three or four persons.  Here a whispered conversation was carried on until the rain began to pour more violently, when, as if they thought it a favorable moment for their enterprise, the whole party began to move forward in Indian file—­that is to say, following one another in a line—­led by the man who had overheard the conversation of the soldiers.  Such was the noise made by the falling drops, and so dark the night, that they had approached close to the sentry before he became aware of any one’s presence.  An accidental slipping of one of the men betrayed them, and, presenting his piece, he demanded the countersign.