He heard the beat of wind and rain as before, but he knew it was something else that had aroused him.

The noise of the storm was regular, it was going on when he fell asleep, and it had never ceased while he slept.

This was something irregular, something out of tune with it, and rising above it.

He listened intently, every nerve and pulse alive, body and mind at the high pitch of excitement, and then the sound came again, low but distinct, and rising above the steady crash of the storm.
He knew the note.

He had heard it often, too often on that terrible day at Ticonderoga.