The
survivor scrambled under the hay over Rolf's face and somewhere
into hiding.
The night passed in many short naps. The bugle sounded at
daybreak and the soldiers arose to make breakfast. Again one
approached to use a handful of hay for fire-kindler, and again
the friendly thistles did their part. More and more now his ear
caught suggestive words and sounds -- "Plattsburg" -- "the
colonel" -- etc.
The breakfast smelt wonderfully captivating -- poor Rolf was
famished. The alluring aroma of coffee permeated the hay-cock. He
had his dried meat, but his need was water; he was tormented with
thirst, and stiff and tortured; he was making the hardest fight
of his life. It seemed long, though doubtless it was less than
half an hour before the meal was finished, and to Rolf's relief
there were sounds of marching and the noises were drowned in the
distance.
By keeping his head covered with hay and slowly raising it, he
was safe to take a look around. It was a bright, sunny morning.
The hay-cock, or thistle-cock, was one of several that had been
rejected. It was a quarter-mile from cover; the soldiers were at
work cutting timber and building a stockade around the mill; and,
most dreadful to relate, a small dog was prowling about, looking
for scraps on the scene of the soldiers' breakfast.
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