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Overhead the slow stars trailed by, dipping, one after one, behind the dark curtain of hills. The moon climbed above the sycamores. Out on the plain something sparkled frostily. It was the bayonet of a sentinel, lonely-pacing in the moonlight. The sight brought the lad back to earth. How would it all end? Were these few bearskinn'd trespassers only the spray of seas to follow?
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