He had again that feeling of pity for the people who had been compelled to flee from such a house, and who might lose it forever.
It seemed to him that all the men, save himself and the sentinels, were asleep, sleeping with the soundness and indifference to surroundings shown by men who took their sleep when they could.
The horses stamped and moved uneasily beneath the threat of the advancing storm, but the men slept heavily on.
Dick knew that the sentinels were awake and watchful.

They had a wholesome dread of Forrest and Wheeler, those wild riders of the South.
Some of them had been present at that terrible surprise in Tennessee, and they were not likely to be careless when they were sure that Forrest might be near, but he remained uneasy nevertheless, and, although he closed his eyes and sought a soft place for his head on the saddle, sleep did not come.
He was sure that his apprehension did not come from any fear of an attack by Forrest or Wheeler.

It was deeper-seated.

The inherited sense that belonged to his great grandfather, who had lived his life in the wilderness, was warning him.

It was not superstition.