"A cur'ous man, leftenant-colonel! a cur'ous man is Mr. Nighthawk!"
said Mr. Alibi.
And he flapped his arms, and wriggled about in a manner so
extraordinary that he looked more like a penguin than ever.
XXVIII.
BIRDS OF PREY.
Night came on. I left my horse at Mr. Alibi's; set off on foot with
Nighthawk; crossed the Rowanty, separating the opposing pickets, by a
moss-covered log, in a shadowy nook, and was approaching the house in
which Swartz was shut up.
Nighthawk moved with the stealthy and gliding step of a wildcat. I
could see the man was a born scout; intended by nature for the calling
he had adopted--secret service. He scarcely uttered a word; when he
did, it was in tones so low that they were lost in the whisper of the
wind, amid the great trailing vines depending from the trees, and I was
compelled to lean my ear close to catch the words.
Fifty paces from the bank, a shadowy object on horseback was visible by
the dim light.
"The vedette," murmured Nighthawk, "but he need not see us."
And plunging, or rather gliding into the shadow of the trees, he led
the way without noise, to a point directly in rear of the vedette.
A hundred yards farther a fire twinkled; and around this fire were the
dusky figures of men and horses. This was evidently the picket.
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