Parbleu,
tows ce que je sais, c'est par la." A body of about one hundred
Britishers, two or three wagons, guns, and a Frenchman for guide.
Rolf thought he knew that voice; yes, he was almost sure it was
the voice of Francios la Colle.
This was important but far from conclusive. It was now eleven. He
was due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast
as he could go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by
occasional glimpses of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing
a furlong from the landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:
Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.
After ten seconds the answer came:
Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.
And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:
Hoo-ooo.
Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his
arm. It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with
the meagre information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made
light of his trouble -- it was a mere scratch -- and reminded
them that their orders were to make sure of the enemy's
movements. Therefore, it was arranged that Seymour take back
Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to complete his scouting.
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