“It may mean our marching orders,” I said, dejected.
We had now arrived at Croghan’s, and she was withdrawing her arm from mine, when the hollow sound of a conch-horn went echoing and booming through the dusk.
“It does mean your marching orders!” she exclaimed, startled.
“It most certainly means something,” said I. “Good-night — I must run for the fort — — ”
“Are you going to — — to leave me?”
“That horn is calling out Morgan’s men — — ”
“Am I not to see you again?”
“Why, yes —