On parting with his comrade on the road to Cortenaeken, Rollo rode at a great pace towards his goal. He was to a certain extent fortunate in finding people at the various branch roads to give him directions; and in less than an hour from the time of parting company with Kenneth he was in sight of the hamlet where he hoped to meet Major Foveneau.
The place seemed deserted. Perhaps, he thought, the Belgian troops were entrenched on the other side of the slightly rising ground. At a great distance off he could hear the rumble of guns in action. Evidently there were two separate battles in progress. From the direction of one cannonade it seemed as if the rival forces were engaged in the district through which he had so recently ridden, yet he could have sworn that he had not seen either a single Belgian or German soldier.
Suddenly, as he glanced to the left, Rollo's heart gave a tremendous thump. He had already ridden more than half-way past the rear of a masked German battery. There were perhaps a dozen guns placed in position behind a ridge. The weapons were trained for high-angle firing, while, to render them invisible from Belgian aircraft, they were screened by branches of trees. By the side of each field-piece was an armoured ammunition cart. The body of the vehicle was upturned to a perpendicular position, the shells being kept in place by a "pigeon-hole" arrangement. The gunners were "standing easy", while, from the tip of a neighbouring haystack, a number of officers were observing the Belgian position through their field-glasses.
Hearing the sound of the motor-cycle, several of the men turned and looked at the dispatch-rider, but they made no attempt to stop him. Evidently they thought he was one of their cyclists, for Rollo's uniform was smothered in grey dust, so that there was no perceptible difference between him and a motor-cyclist attached to the invading army.
Fortunately Rollo kept his head. Without slackening his speed he continued on his way until he was within two hundred yards of the nearest house in the village. Here he dismounted and began to rack his brains as to the best course to pursue.
He had fallen into a trap. Cortenaeken had been taken and was now in the possession of the enemy. He could see that several of the buildings were damaged by shell-fire. Unknown to himself he had ridden through the advanced German lines without any suspicion that thousands of men were concealed in the fields and thickets on either side of the road. The German left flank had been thrown forward a considerable distance, and their motor-scouts had been constantly in touch with the centre. Thus, by a pure fluke, Rollo had ridden through with a German motor-cyclist ten minutes ahead of him and another five minutes behind.
"I'll destroy the dispatch at once," decided the lad. "After that I'll try and ride back by the way I came. So here goes!"
He drew the petrol-soaked paper from the tank, and carried it to a dry ditch by the side of the road. The dispatch flared as soon as Rollo struck a match and set light to it. Its destruction was rapid and complete.
Before he could regain his mount a motor-cyclist dashed up. As he approached he slackened speed, gripped the exhaust-lifter, and took advantage of the consequent reduction of sound to shout something in German. Rollo shook his head; his knowledge of German was too elementary for him to reply, but he gathered that the man was asking whether he required any assistance.
Then, to the lad's consternation, the German dispatch-rider stopped, dismounted, and walked towards him.
"There's only one thing I can do—-I must pretend I'm deaf and dumb—temporary effect of the concussion of a shell, although I can't show a wound," thought Rollo. "It wouldn't be cricket to shoot the chap, especially as he stopped in all good faith. Well, here goes!"
Opening his mouth and working his chin like a gasping cod-fish, the lad awaited with considerable misgivings the result of his experiment.
The German was a round-faced, fair-haired fellow of about twenty—a student fresh from college. He looked quite sympathetic, and when Rollo explained by means of signs that there was something wrong with the electric ignition of his cycle, his face lighted up. Strolling up to the British lad's mount, he proceeded in quite a natural way to examine the sparking-plug, and, for the benefit of the supposed distressed rider, he made a pantomimic display of rubbing it with emery-cloth.
This done, he walked across to the spot where he had left his own cycle, still holding the plug in his hand.
"He's going to clean the blessed thing for me," thought Rollo, "and it's in perfect order, too."
But the next moment his amusement was changed to consternation, for, leaping into his saddle, the German made off at full speed, leaving Rollo with a motor-cycle that was now out of action with a vengeance.
Rollo was not left long in doubt as to the fellow's intentions. Soon he reappeared from the village accompanied by a patrol of Uhlans. The British-made motor-cycle had aroused his suspicions, and a closer inspection of Rollo's dust-covered uniform had confirmed them.
"The brute!" ejaculated Rollo. "At all events those fellows won't make use of my cycle."
With a quick movement he unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank, and threw his highly-prized mount on its side. Then, striking a match and deliberately waiting till it was well alight, he threw it into the escaping spirit. With a flash and a roar the petrol caught, and in an instant the cycle was enveloped in flames.
Rollo did not wait to see the end of his act of destruction. Taking to his heels he ran towards a wood about a couple of furlongs from the road. The hoarse shouts of the pursuing Uhlans rang in his ears as he fled, while a bullet, missing him handsomely, whizzed ten feet above his head.
Another shot followed with no better result. It was not the rifles of the pursuing horsemen that he feared; it was their obvious superiority in speed.
He could hear the thud of the horses' hoofs in the soft ground growing momentarily louder and louder. Only twenty yards more, and the Uhlans would be balked by the dense foliage. Ahead was a ditch, six feet in width, with a fairly high bank on the opposite side. In his heated imagination the fugitive could almost feel the points of those ugly lances thrust into his back.
With a stupendous effort he leapt, alighting on the other side of the ditch on his hands and knees. The Germans, fearing to risk the jump, began to rein in their horses. For the time being he had won.
Rollo staggered to his feet and clambered up the bank, when to his horror he found himself confronted by a dozen levelled rifles. It was a case of "out of the frying-pan into the fire" with a vengeance.
Had there been a ghost of a chance to break away Rollo would have seized it, but there was none. He raised both hands above his head.
The next instant he was held by two powerful soldiers, while others, with a dexterity acquired by much practice, searched him. Not only was he stripped, and the lining of his coat ripped open, but his boots were removed and the soles cut through, in case a hidden dispatch might be found. They even forced open his mouth to make certain he was not swallowing any document; and they took good care to retain the letters he had received from home.
Finding nothing of the nature they suspected, the sergeant in charge of the men gruffly ordered him in very imperfect French to dress. Then, escorted by four men, and followed by the patrol of Uhlans and the motor-cyclist who had raised the alarm, Rollo was taken into the village and brought before a group of officers.
"Ah, Englishman! We have caught you, then," exclaimed one of the Prussian officers.
Rollo looked straight at him. The German was in the uniform of the line. His head was swathed in surgical bandages, but there was enough of his face left exposed to give the British lad a clue to the identity of the speaker. He was the major who had treacherously attempted to shoot the Belgian officer by whom he had been given quarter, on the occasion of the night attack upon Fort de Barchon. On the fall of the Liége fortresses the Prussian had been released by his comrades, and in spite of his wound was once more at the front.
For the next ten minutes Rollo was closely questioned. He replied only when he felt fairly certain that there was no harm in so doing; but, when pressed to give information respecting the Belgian forces, he resolutely refused.
The German officers swore, and threatened him.
"You cannot make me disclose information," declared Rollo. "It is against the rules of war to coerce a prisoner."
A chorus of loud jeering laughter greeted this statement.
"My young friend," quoth the Major when the mirth had subsided, "you do not understand. When Germany makes war she makes war: there are no half-measures. Why should we, the greatest nation upon earth, be bound by rules and regulations laid down by a self-constituted peace party—the Geneva Convention?"
"But Germany was a party to it."
"Because at the time it suited her purpose. It is no use arguing, young Englishman. The point is, do you answer all our questions, or must we exercise pressure? Bear in mind that if you give false information, which we are certain to find out, you will be shot."
Rollo felt far from comfortable. His faith in the traditions of war, in which he had been versed by his father, was ruthlessly destroyed by the cold-blooded declaration of his captor. It was as well that he was given to pondering rather than to forming a hasty and impulsive resolution, otherwise he might have told the German major to do his worst. Under similar circumstances the impetuous Kenneth might have sealed his own death-warrant; but Rollo remembered that a still tongue makes a wise head.
Fortunately at this juncture an orderly knocked at the door. In response to an ungracious permission to enter he strode stiffly into the room, clicked his heels, and saluted.
"What is it?" demanded the Major.
The soldier handed his officer a sealed dispatch. The German broke the flap of the envelope with a violent movement of his thick fingers. It was characteristic of him and his profession: the use of brute force, even when dealing with the frailest thing that balked him.
His brows darkened. With an oath he tossed the document to his brother officers. They, too, swore. The news was not at all reassuring.
"Sergeant!" roared the Major. "Tell one of your men to have the swiftest motor-car he can find brought here at once. Those Belgian brutes have been causing trouble near Tirlemont. Then pick out a reliable patrol to escort this prisoner to Tirlemont, where I will deal with him in due course."
The sergeant saluted, and ran as hard as he could to execute his superior's commands. Rollo was removed in charge of the guards, until the arrival of the Uhlans detailed to act as his escort. Then, having made arrangements with his brother officers for the hurrying up of the regiment to repel the new phase of the Belgian offensive, the Major entered the waiting car and was whirled off along the Tirlemont road.
Rollo smiled grimly as he noted the numbers of the Uhlan escort.
"Seven of them: they are not going to take much risk of my giving them the slip," he thought. "All the same I'll keep my eyes well open, and if there is the faintest possible chance I'll take it. Anything is better than being threatened by that brute of a Prussian major. I wish I had knocked him over the head that night."
After traversing about two miles of the road the Uhlans relaxed their vigilance. No longer did they carry their lances across the saddle-bow, ready to transfix their prisoner at the first sign of trouble. Out came their pipes, and, under the soothing influence of the tobacco, the Uhlans attempted a conversation in broken French with their youthful charge. It was not a pleasant subject, for, with grim vividness, they impressed upon the lad the fact that they had already seen more than twenty summary executions, and judging by the manner in which the prisoners met their fate, the process was sharp and practically painless. But they could not understand why Herr Major had gone to the trouble to have the prisoner sent after him to Tirlemont, instead of having him put out of the way without further delay.
A mounted scout came galloping along the dusty road. The corporal in charge of the Uhlans stopped him to ask whether there were any Belgian troops in the district. Receiving a negative reply, the Uhlan grunted that it was just as well, as he had no desire to be shot at by those troublesome rascals.
"It is as safe as in the Unter den Linden," added the scout. "There is not an armed Belgian within ten miles of you. Our 43rd and 62nd Line Regiments have just gone forward. You might almost see the rear-guard; so keep up a brave heart, comrade."
The corporal growled at this joking advice, yet in his own mind he felt greatly relieved. After all there was no hurry to reach Tirlemont. If the patrol arrived before sunset, it was more than likely they would be ordered to perform another and more hazardous service.
"We'll halt at that farm-house," he said to his men. "There may be something worth finding. Two of you will be sufficient to keep an eye on the prisoner. He doesn't seem as if he will give trouble."
"Ciel! What has hit you?" asked the Belgian corporal, regarding Kenneth with evident alarm.
"I am all right," replied the lad; "but those Uhlans have captured my friend—the English motor-cyclist I told you about."
"Get your rifles, comrades," ordered the corporal. "Louis, since you are wounded, remain at this loop-hole."
The lancer, struggling into his cartridge-belt, made his way to the observation post; while Kenneth and the rest of the Belgians pushed back the trap-door and took cover on the ground floor of the partly-demolished house. There was plenty of time, for the Uhlans were proceeding at a leisurely pace.
"It is safe to fire," continued the corporal, having satisfied himself on all sides that there were no other German troops within sight. "I will take the leading Bosche on the right; Gaston, the one by his side will make a broad mark, since you are not a first-class shot. You, Étienne, cover the Uhlans on the prisoner's left; and you, monsieur, try your luck on that fellow in the rear. The rest we must polish off with the second round: none must escape, or we are undone. Now, monsieur, when I give the word, shout to your friend and tell him to fall to the ground. Even a hulking German will not stop a bullet, and I am sure your friend would not like a second-hand piece of lead."
Slowly the seconds seemed to pass. The Belgians, with their rifles resting on the broken brickwork and their fingers lightly touching their sensitive triggers, were ready for their prey. Admirably concealed, they were still further favoured by the light, for the setting sun shone full in the faces of the unsuspecting Uhlans.
"Now, monsieur!" hissed the corporal.
"Rollo!" shouted Kenneth. "Lie down!"
For once, at least, Rollo acted promptly. He threw himself on the road so swiftly that the horse of the Uhlan behind him reared. The German corporal, although he could not understand what was said, suspected the truth.
A word of command was on his lips, when he tumbled from the saddle with a bullet through his brain. Two more Germans shared the fate of their non-commissioned officer; but the fellow at whom Gaston had aimed came off lightly, with a neatly-drilled hole through his bridle-arm.
Two more, dismounting and taking cover behind their horses, attempted to use their carbines; while the seventh, seized with a panic, wheeled, and galloped as hard as he could from the scene.
Again the Belgian rifles rang out. The fugitive horse stumbled and fell, throwing its rider with a sickening thud upon the hard road. From the semi-underground retreat the Belgian corporal's rifle flashed, and one of the dismounted Uhlans dropped, while his horse, wounded in the neck by the same bullet that had killed his master, reared, and plunged upon Rollo as he lay upon the ground.
The other dismounted German, seeing the fate of his comrades, attempted to remount, but he too fell, shot through the heart.
In the midst of the confusion the wounded Uhlan set spurs to his steed and, bending over the animal's neck, tore down the road.
"Drop him: if he gets away we are as good as done for!" shouted the Belgian corporal.
Shot after shot whistled after the fugitive. Once he was seen to give a spasmodic movement and then again to drop over the horse's neck. Still the terrified animal tore onwards, and at length was out of sight.
"Quel dommage!" ejaculated the corporal. "The rascal has got away."
"He'll drop. I'll swear that he was badly hit," said Étienne, the artilleryman.
"We are not to know that," grumbled the corporal; "at least, not at present. Quick, there! We must remove all traces of the affair, and trust to luck that the fellow will be able to tell no tales."
Resting their rifles against the wall, Kenneth and his Belgian comrades ran into the road. They found Rollo little the worse for his experiences, beyond a bruised ankle caused by a kick from the struggling horse.
"Congratulations after. Work first," exclaimed the corporal. "Together, comrades!"
The corpses of the Uhlans and their horses were dragged across the highway and thrown into the broad ditch, where in the now gathering twilight they would escape observation, while dust was thrown upon the traces of the encounter.
"Now to the cellar!" exclaimed the corporal. "Nevertheless, I will remain without for a time. I am not at all satisfied. The escape of that wounded Uhlan troubles me, so I will keep watch from without."
"He received his quietus, never fear," declared Gaston. "He will tell no tales."
"If your opinion is not more true than your aim—" began the corporal meaningly. "But we must hope that it is so. All the same I will keep watch."
The rest of his comrades regained their underground retreat, leaving the trap-door open in order that the corporal could descend without delay. Rollo was this time the centre of attraction, and the rescued lad had to give a long and detailed account of his adventures in the hands of the Germans.
"Your foot is hurting you," observed Kenneth, noticing that Rollo was wincing towards the close of his narrative. "Take off your boot and let me see what is wrong."
Examination showed that Rollo's leg was badly bruised from the ankle to the knee; in addition there were slight abrasions.
"It's lucky you didn't get a direct kick from that horse," continued Kenneth. "I'll bring some water and bathe it. I'm sorry we haven't any first-aid stuff with us."
With that Kenneth reascended the ladder, and made his way to a well that was situated about ten paces from where the back door of the house used to be. It was now nearly dark. The Belgian keeping his solitary vigil was hardly visible in the gloom.
The lad raised the heavy iron bucket, emptied about half the contents away, and was about to return to the cellar when the corporal gripped him by the shoulders.
"Regardez bien!" he whispered, pointing along the road that led to Cortenaeken.
"German cavalry!" exclaimed Kenneth.
"Would that it were!" said the Belgian. "Then we might see some fun. They are artillery. Ten thousand plagues on the clumsiness of Gaston! By missing that fellow, he allowed him to bring this hornets' nest about our ears. To the cellar! We cannot fight, we must hide and trust to luck."
Quickly the cellar-flap was shut, and in total darkness the six men waited for the opening of the German guns.
An appalling crash, followed by the rumbling of fallen bricks, announced that the first shell had hit the building. Mortar dropped from the arched roof of their underground retreat. The Belgians chuckled.
"Let the rascals waste their shells," declared Étienne. "They will want them badly before the war is over."
"Did you bring the water?" asked Rollo.
"Rather! I am not such an ass as to forget about you, old man," replied Kenneth. "Can you limp as far as the end of the cellar? There's a bench or something of the kind. It will be better than sitting on the cold stones."
Carefully and deliberately Kenneth bathed his chum's injured leg, while without the deafening crashes continued at rapid intervals.
"There can't be much of the house left," observed Rollo. "It wasn't much of a show when I first saw it. By the by, where is your bike?"
"Under some damp straw in an outhouse. It ought to be well out of the bursting area of those shells. At any rate——"
A vivid flash of light filled the cellar. There was a terrific roar, followed by an avalanche of bricks and stones. Kenneth, who was kneeling by his chum, was thrown violently against Rollo, and the two, deafened by the concussion, found themselves gasping for breath amid the sulphurous fumes that wafted around them.
A shell, crashing through the cellar-flap, had burst in the underground refuge. The luckless Belgians were literally blown to atoms. Kenneth and Rollo had escaped almost by a miracle, only to be confronted by a new danger. They were buried alive, and in peril of suffocation from the noxious gases of the burst projectile.
Kenneth staggered to his feet. His head came in contact with an immense slab of stone. He stretched out his arms, to find that his hands touched a shaking mass of brickwork on both sides.
"We're trapped!" he whispered. "If those brutes fire again, the rest of the cellar will cave in on top of us I wonder how the other fellows got on."
He called the Belgians by name, at first softly, then gradually raising his voice, but no reply came through the intervening barrier of debris.
The firing had now ceased. The last shell—the most destructive of all—had reduced the farm-house to a heap of ruins. Above ground, hardly one brick or stone adhered to another, while beneath the mound of ruins the two British lads were entombed, and apparently doomed to a lingering death.
For nearly a quarter of an hour, though it seemed like a long-drawn night, Kenneth and Rollo remained silent. Gradually the air became purer as the fumes escaped through the crevices in the brickwork. It was the darkness they dreaded most—a darkness that could almost be felt. It seemed to have weight, to press upon their eyes.
"I wish I had a match," whispered Kenneth.
Rollo felt in his pockets. It was, as he expected, a vain quest, for when in the hands of the Germans he had been rigorously searched, and every article in his possession had been confiscated.
"This is the limit," said Kenneth dolorously. "I'd much rather be shot in action. Here we may be snuffed out and no one will be a bit the wiser. We may not be found for years, perhaps never."
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed his companion. "It's bad enough without rubbing it in."
"I wasn't."
"Yes, you were; but, I say, don't let us start quarrelling. The question is——"
"Hist!" whispered Kenneth. "I hear voices."
The lad was right. Almost above their heads heavy boots were stumbling over the debris, while the muffled sounds of guttural voices were borne to the ears of the two prisoners. The Germans were searching the ruins.
"I vote we shout. They'll dig us out," suggested Kenneth.
"I vote we don't," objected Rollo sturdily. "See, the gleam of a lantern is showing through a crack or a hole in the brickwork, so it can't be so very thick. We may be able to tunnel our way out when they clear off. If we gave ourselves up, ten to one they would shoot us for giving them all this trouble."
It was that small glimmer of light that raised their hopes, without which they would, through sheer panic, have called frantically to their foes for aid, without considering the consequences.
For perhaps an hour the Germans continued their search, until, discovering the passage of the final and fatal shell, they removed sufficient of the debris to enable them to descend to the cellar. The entombment of the two lads now proved to be a blessing in disguise, for, screened from observation by the mound of rubble, their retreat was unsuspected by the searchers.
Having found sufficient evidence to satisfy themselves that the Belgians who had ambushed the Uhlan patrol were themselves slain, the Germans concluded their investigations and went away.
For another long period the lads remained silent, until they felt convinced that once more they were free from the unwelcome attentions of the German troops. Then Rollo broke the silence.
"I'm jolly thirsty," he remarked.
"So am I," declared Kenneth. "There's some water in the bucket. We needn't be too particular. I dipped my handkerchief in it, but it was fairly clean."
"I'm ready to mop water out of a ditch," said Rollo.
Kenneth groped for the bucket. It was within six inches of his foot and standing upright, but it was empty. A fragment of shell had torn a hole through it close to the bottom. Not a drop of liquid was left.
"We've had a jolly narrow squeak," said Kenneth. "After that it would be hard lines if we were knocked out in the last lap. I don't think we shall be. Suppose we start tunnelling."
"Steady on, old man! We ought to wait till it gets light. Then we will be able to see what we are doing," expostulated his companion.
"I can feel."
"Yes, perhaps; but by dislodging part of the rubble you may cause a sort of landslide and bury us completely. I vote we exercise just a little more patience."
They had been conversing in whispers, lest the sound of their voices might be heard by a sentry, for it was quite possible that the Germans might think they had not accounted for the whole garrison of the ruined farmhouse. They had good reason to believe that the British dispatch-rider had taken refuge there; the only chance was that they might have come to the conclusion that Rollo was one of the unrecognizable victims of the deadly shell.
Slowly the hours of darkness passed, the silence broken only at intervals by the dull grinding of the subsiding debris and by a desultory, whispered conversation between the lads. Then Kenneth became aware that he could indistinctly discern his companion's face The long-hoped-for dawn had come at last.
In another half-hour it was light enough to form a fairly accurate idea of the state of affairs. The prisoners were in a triangular-shaped space, two sides consisting of the adjoining walls of the cellar. The third was composed of a bank of broken bricks and stones, diminishing in thickness as it grew in height. Overhead a part of the vaulted roof had fallen, but the brickwork remained cemented together, forming a shield from the rubble above it. But for this mass of brickwork the lads would have been crushed to death by the immense weight of the ruined walls of the farm-house.
Between the topmost bricks and the overhead protection quite a strong light penetrated into the cavity where they crouched. The early morning sun was shining directly upon the heap of debris.
"I think we can shift this stuff," remarked Kenneth, cautiously feeling a loose brickbat.
"All right, carry on," replied Rollo. "Only be careful to test each piece of rubble before you remove it. If we cannot make a hole through in that direction we must try cutting through the existing wall. It will be a tough job, but you have your knife."
"I hope we won't have to do that. The cement is as hard as iron. It would take us a week. Let's hope for the best."
Proceeding very cautiously, Kenneth removed enough of the debris to disclose an opening sufficiently large to thrust his head through. Upon attempting to enlarge the hole the mass began to slide; the overhead slab of brickwork rumbled.
"Steady on!" cautioned Rollo in alarm. "The whole show's caving in."
"It won't any more," declared Kenneth after a brief investigation. "See that wedge-shaped brick? It's acting as a keystone of an arch. All we have to do is to remove the rubbish from the lower part of the hole and squeeze out sideways."
In another half-hour the gap through the mound of rubble was enlarged to roughly eighteen inches wide and two feet in height. To all appearances the danger of further subsidence was past.
"I'll go first, old man," said Kenneth. "Then, if I get through all right, I can give you a hand. Think you'll manage it with that leg of yours?"
"I hardly feel it," replied Rollo, which was indeed no exaggeration. Keeping fairly still in that confined space, he had not tried the injured ankle. But, almost as soon as he made the declaration, he became aware of a throbbing pain from his hip downwards. In spite of Kenneth's attention to the sprained ankle on the previous night, the limb had swollen to an alarming extent.
Rollo made no mention of this to his comrade. He shut his jaw tightly and endured the pain.
With the utmost caution Kenneth began to wriggle through the narrow tunnel, using one outstretched arm to pull himself over the rough brickwork. The other arm he had to keep close to his side, and even thus it was a tight squeeze. Before his head emerged from the opening he stuck—and stuck fast. He felt as if he were suffocating; he was assailed by the horrible dread that the rubble was slowly yet surely subsiding. He wanted to struggle madly and desperately; to shout for aid. He was momentarily panic-stricken.
Controlling himself by a strong effort, Kenneth ceased to waste his strength in a useless attempt to drag himself from that horrible passage. With the sweat pouring from him he kept quiet, filling his lungs with the cool morning air from without.
"What have you stopped for?" asked Rollo anxiously.
"Can't help it," was the muffled reply. "Give my legs a shove, old man."
This Rollo did effectively by applying his back to the soles of his companion's feet. Keeping absolutely rigid, Kenneth found himself being pushed slowly yet gradually towards freedom. His head emerged—then his shoulders. He could now draw up his left arm and assist in the nerve-racking operation. Wellnigh breathless, bruised and scraped, covered with dirt and dust, and with his clothing rent in several places, he gained the open air.
Kenneth had already had sufficient military experience to learn the value of concealment. Without attempting to stand he made a careful survey of his surroundings. He was in a bowl-like depression enclosed on all sides by irregular hummocks of pulverized brickwork, tiles, and charred timbers.
With a sigh of relief the lad realized that there were no Germans in sight. The attacking party had not thought fit to leave a picket in charge of the ruins of the farm-house. To all appearances the two comrades were the only living persons for miles around.
"I'll get the rope from the well and give you a pull out," announced Kenneth upon returning to the mouth of the tunnel. "It will be a fairly easy job."
"Don't be long, then," said Rollo anxiously.
"I won't," replied the lad encouragingly, and without further delay he hastened towards the well. It was no longer there. Only a deep cavity partly filled with rubbish marked its site. A shell had exploded close to it, causing the walls to cave in, and throwing out enough earth to leave a pit three yards in diameter. The windlass and the rope had vanished utterly.
"That's done it!" exclaimed Kenneth; then a brilliant idea flashing across his mind, he bent his back and ran across to the partly-demolished outhouse where he had hidden his motor-cycle.
With a shout of satisfaction he found the machine exactly as he had left it. The Germans had visited the adjoining shed, for several bundles of fresh straw had been removed. Wisps of straw were scattered on the ground, but the rotten material which Kenneth had thrown over his mount had been considered unworthy of the spoilers' attention.
Deftly Kenneth removed the belt from the cycle and doubled back to the tunnel.
"You've been a time!" exclaimed Rollo with evident relief. "I thought you'd tumbled into the well or had been collared by the enemy."
"Neither, thanks, old man. The well's gone to blazes and the rope as well, but this belt will answer our purpose. Hang on with both hands, turn over on your side, sprained foot uppermost, and say when you're ready."
Upon receiving the signal Kenneth began to haul. To his great surprise Rollo was pulled through the narrow opening with very little difficulty. Once more they were free; but they were not yet out of the wood. Between them and the Belgian army lay the lines of a vigilant and wary foe.
"Everything's all clear, as far as I can see," reported Kenneth. "The question is, how are we to rejoin our regiment?"
"I can foot it," declared Rollo.
"But not ten miles. Your ankle would give out before you walked a hundred yards. What I vote we do is that I ride the bike and take you on the carrier."
Rollo shook his head.
"Too jolly conspicuous," he protested. "One fellow might stand the ghost of a chance, but two——"
Kenneth turned over the question in his mind for a few moments. To remain where they were was impracticable. They would be starving before many more hours had passed.
"Tell you what!" he exclaimed as an idea flashed through his brain. "We'll rig ourselves out in German uniforms——"
"And get shot as spies if we're collared! No, thanks, Kenneth. If we are to be plugged I'd rather be in Belgian uniform, since a British one is at present out of the question."
"It's a risk, I admit. Everything is, under existing circumstances. If we are spotted, then there's an end to it and us; otherwise we stand a better chance by masquerading in these fellows' clothes."
"But if we are challenged? We couldn't reply in German."
"You're meeting trouble half-way."
"I like to go into the pros and cons," declared Rollo. "If you can convince me that your scheme is a sound one, I'm on; otherwise—dead off. For one thing, where are the German uniforms?"
"You've forgotten the Uhlans we slung into the ditch."
Rollo shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"I draw the line at donning the saturated uniform of a dead Uhlan."
"Come, don't be squeamish. If you are never asked to do a worse thing than that in the course of your natural, then you are a lucky individual. You'll find it's like taking a header into the sea on a gusty summer's day. The wind makes you shiver, and you think twice about it, but once you are in the water it's comparatively warm."
"You haven't got over the language difficulty."
"Yes, I have; at least I think so. If we meet any patrols, you must pretend to be half-dead——"
"I guess I shall be dead entirely if we do."
"Badly wounded, then. I'll bandage you up, and at the same time put a scarf round my jaw."
"What for?"
"Haven't you any imagination, old man? Why, to make out I've been wounded in the mouth and am unable to speak a word."
"You may think me an obstinate mule, Kenneth," said his comrade, "but why should two wounded men be trying to make their way to the front? Naturally they would be making tracks to the nearest field hospital."
"You've done me there," declared Kenneth. "But I can't see how we can go direct towards the German lines. Whether we go to the right or left the road runs nearly parallel to the enemy's front."
"Perhaps we may as well risk it," decided Rollo. "I believe I noticed a plank across the ditch about a mile along the road. The question is whether the bike will stand it over the rough ground."
"She will—she'll tackle anything within reason," said Kenneth optimistically. "So let's make a move."
Overcoming their natural repugnance, the two lads recovered the bodies of a couple of Uhlans from the muddy ditch and proceeded to strip them of their uniforms. These they wrung out, and placed on the broken brickwork to dry.
"I say!" suddenly exclaimed Rollo. "How about these boots with spurs? Do Uhlans ever ride motor-bikes?"
"Rather! They've a couple of motor-cyclists to each troop. All we have to do is to knock off the spurs, and there you are!"
As soon as the two lads had completed their change of uniforms they made a final reconnaissance. Finding the road clear of troops, Kenneth started the engine and stood astride the saddle, while Rollo took up his position on the carrier.
They looked a pair of bedraggled scarecrows. The Uhlan uniforms were wet and plastered with mud. Rollo's forehead was bound round with a grimy scarf, while, to give a most realistic touch, Kenneth had tied the blood-stained handkerchief that had been applied to his chum's ankle round the lower part of his face, completely covering his mouth.
"Ready?" asked Kenneth in muffled tones. Receiving an affirmative reply from his companion, he slipped in the clutch and away the cycle glided.
"Here's trouble!" the lad thought before many yards of road had been traversed, for ahead was a rapidly-nearing cloud of dust that evidently betokened the approach of cavalry or horse artillery.
"Troops of sorts coming," he informed his companion.
"Thanks, quite comfortable," was Rollo's inconsequential reply; for the handkerchief round Kenneth's mouth, the noise of the engine, and the rush of air as the motor-cycle tore along prevented the passenger from hearing the information given, while Rollo was unable to look ahead.
"Germans in sight!" yelled Kenneth.
This time Rollo understood. Resisting the temptation to look over his companion's shoulder, he drooped his head, as becoming the rôle of a badly-wounded man.
The on-coming troops turned out to be neither cavalry nor artillery, but a motor section, including a machine-gun mounted on an armoured side-car. Fortunately the pace as Rollo and Kenneth tore past was such that recognition or detection was out of the question.
"Here we are," announced Rollo a few seconds later.
Kenneth quickly pulled up. As he did so he gave a hurried look around. There were no signs of more Germans, while the motor-cyclist detachment was almost out of sight.
The plank across the ditch was about nine inches wide. In places it was worn to such an extent that there were holes in the wood. Kenneth eyed it with obvious distrust, yet it seemed the only likely means of gaining the open country beyond, across which a footpath promised fairly easy going.
"I didn't know that it was so rotten as that," said Rollo apologetically. "I don't know whether it will bear the weight of the bike."
"We'll risk it anyhow," declared Kenneth. "Can you put your foot to the ground without much pain? You can? Good! Steady the jigger a second."
Unhesitatingly Kenneth jumped into the ditch. He sank above his ankles in mud, with the water up to his thighs, yet he was able to keep the motor-cycle in an upright position while Rollo, steadying himself by means of the saddle, pushed it along the creaking plank.
"That looks bad," commented Kenneth, pointing to a small object lying on the ground. It was a brass button from the tunic of a Prussian soldier. Some of the enemy had passed that way, and were consequently between the lads and the Belgian lines.
"We may find a gap," declared Rollo, for by this time he was whole-heartedly devoted to the carrying out of his comrade's plans. "If it comes to the pinch we will have to abandon the bike."
"Steady, old man!" said Kenneth in mock reproof. "Because you lost your motor-cycle there is no reason why you should suggest my doing likewise. Now, jump up."
Kenneth maintained a moderate pace, keeping a bright look-out for any indications of the invaders. Judging by the state of the path and the ground for a few yards on either side, a regiment had recently passed that way, marching in fours. That meant that they were some distance from the supposed firing-line, otherwise the men would have advanced in open order. From the north came the distant rumble of guns. An action was in progress in the neighbourhood of Diest and Aerschot.
"Look out!" suddenly exclaimed Rollo. "There's a Taube."
"Where?" enquired his companion, slipping the handkerchief from over his mouth.
"Right behind us, and coming this way. I believe it's going to land."
"The rotter!" ejaculated Kenneth. "I wonder if they have spotted us, and are suspicious."
There was no time to say more, for the aeroplane was now passing overhead at an altitude of about two hundred feet. The motor had been switched off, and the Taube was vol-planing towards the earth.
It descended clumsily, striking the ground with a terrific bump that demolished the wheels and landing-skids. Directly the Taube came to rest, the pilot alighted and waved frantically to the two supposed Uhlan motor-cyclists.
"I'll have to go," mumbled Kenneth, who had readjusted his bandage. "You stay here. Now, steady—let me help you. Remember you are badly wounded, yet you want to skip like a superanimated gazelle. That's better; let your arms trail helplessly."
Having placed Rollo in a dry, shallow ditch by the side of the path, Kenneth walked quickly towards the disabled Taube. Outwardly he was cool enough, but his heart was beating rapidly.
At ten paces from the observer he stopped, clicked his heels, and saluted in correct German fashion.
The flying-officer spoke rapidly, at the same time pointing in a westerly direction. Kenneth knew not a word of what he said, but replied by nodding his head and indicating his bandaged jaw.
The German scowled, then, turning to the pilot, spoke a few quick sentences. Kenneth's hand wandered to the butt-end of his revolver. It imparted a feeling of comparative security. Then, recollecting his rôle, he pulled himself together and stood rigidly at attention, at the same time ready, at the first sign of suspicion on the part of the airmen, to draw his weapon and blaze away.
Presently the pilot produced some sheets of paper and a buff calico envelope. The observer scribbled a few lines, sealed the missive, and held it towards the pseudo Uhlan.
Although Kenneth could not understand the other's words, their meaning was clear enough. He had been peremptorily told to make tracks and deliver the message somewhere towards the west, where the German lines were. With another salute he wheeled, and returned to his companion. Not daring to speak a word, he assisted Rollo to his seat on the carrier and set the motor in action.
"We're in luck, old man," said Kenneth, when they were well out of sight of the disabled Taube. "If we are spotted by any patrols this letter will pass us through. It's evidently a report to the colonel of one of the regiments in the fighting-line."
"Don't you think you had better drop me?"
"Drop you—what on earth for?"
"You might get through as a German dispatch-rider; but with a supposed wounded man going towards the firing-line? Looks a bit suspicious, eh?"
"No fear; we'll stick together. If one gets through, the other must; otherwise we'll both go under. Hello! Here's a road."
It was a sharp corner as they swung from the path to the highway. Kenneth wisely slowed down, and found himself almost in collision with a German patrol.
The men were evidently exhausted. Two were standing in the centre of the road, and leaning heavily upon their rifles. Half a dozen more, having discarded their rolled coats and cumbersome knapsacks, were reclining on a bank. The two faced about on hearing the approach of the motor. The others sprang to their feet and seized their rifles.
Producing the buff envelope Kenneth waved it frantically, at the same time increasing speed. The Germans stood back, the sergeant grunting a few words as the two lads flashed by. No bullets whistled past them; the aviator's dispatch had proved a safe passport.
For the next two miles they were continually passing troops, some going in the same direction, accompanied by heavily-laden supply wagons; others, wounded in action, painfully making their way towards the nearest field hospital.
The action, whatever the result might be, was no longer in this part of the field of operations. Ahead were the bivouacs of the Germans holding the line of front. The air was thick with the smoke of their campfires. Right and left, as far as the eye could see, were masses of grey-coated men, without a sign of a gap through which the British lads could make a dash for freedom.
Two hundred yards to the left of the road was a battery, the guns of which were admirably concealed from view from the front by a bank of earth on which were stuck branches of trees. The muzzles of the artillery were pointing at an angle of thirty degrees, so that they must have been shelling a Belgian position at a range of about five miles. Since the guns were now silent, Kenneth could only reiterate his belief that the heroic Belgians had had to retire in the face of overwhelming numbers, and that a distance of at least seven miles lay between the two lads and their friends.
After passing numerous detachments of troops without alarming incident, the confidence of Kenneth and his companion grew stronger; but they had a nasty shock when they were peremptorily challenged by a picket and ordered to halt. The sight of half a dozen levelled bayonets left no doubt as to the demands of the sergeant in charge of the party.
Kenneth brought the motor-cycle to a dead-stop, keeping his saddle and supporting the machine by placing his feet on the ground. Rollo, too, made no attempt to dismount, but, clinging to his companion, drooped his head with well-feigned exhaustion.
Pointing to the bandage over his jaw, Kenneth produced the official document. The sergeant took it, read the inscription, and pointed to a turning on the right. That, the lads knew, ran parallel to the German front.
Meanwhile one of the soldiers stooped and peered into Rollo's face. Then he said something to the sergeant, who signified assent. The private began to lift Rollo from his perch—not with any degree of violence, but carefully, as if actuated by feelings of compassion, addressing him askamerade.
Rollo hung on tightly. Kenneth turned his head and expostulated in dumb show. The private again appealed to his sergeant, at the same time pointing to a Red Cross motor-wagon that was standing at some distance off.
With a jerk of his head the sergeant bade the man desist. After all, it was not his business. If the wounded Uhlan preferred to be jolted about on a motorcycle rather than be properly attended to in an ambulance cart, it was his affair.
Not to be outdone, the private gave Rollo a drink from his water-bottle. Then, having returned the envelope to Kenneth and given him elaborate directions, made fairly clear by many movements of his hand, the sergeant allowed the two lads to proceed.
To continue along the road would arouse immediate suspicion. Accordingly Kenneth turned off and followed the route indicated by the German. Here, although there were plenty of troops moving up and down, most of the traffic was across the road between the bivouacs of the advance lines and the supports. Men were hurrying, each with a set purpose, and the two supposed wounded lads attracted but little notice.
The road they were now following was gradually converging upon the line of resting troops. Unless it made a bend to the right it would cut through the mass of German soldiery. And perhaps the officer whose name was on the envelope might be within close distance. His acquaintance neither Kenneth nor Rollo had the faintest desire to make.
So suddenly that Kenneth almost overshot it, a narrow lane, running at right angles to the direction in which they were travelling, came into view. It separated two infantry regiments, while at the cross-roads two machine-guns commanded the approach from the westward.
In an instant Kenneth made up his mind. Round swung the motor-bike, grazing one of the machine-guns by a bare inch; then, at full speed, Kenneth began his hazardous dash for safety. He had not ignored the risk, but there was a chance of success. The lane wound considerably, and, before the machine-guns could open fire, the fugitives would be screened by a bend of the tree-lined avenue.
A dozen voices shouted to him to stop. A bullet whistled high above the heads of the fugitives. A soldier, more alert than his comrades, had let loose a hasty, ill-aimed shot. Other bullets followed, some hitting the ground, others zipping overhead; but to Kenneth's relief there was no tap-tap of the deadly machine-guns.
"An outpost, by Jove!" muttered Kenneth.
He had not reckoned upon this. A quarter of a mile in advance of the line of bivouacs were a dozen infantrymen, lying hidden in a copse. Hearing the rifle-firing they started to their feet.
Kenneth never attempted to slacken his pace. He realized that everything depended upon speed. Before the outposts could solve the mystery of two men in Uhlan uniforms tearing towards them, the motor-cycle with its double burden was upon them. They gave back. One man attempted to lunge with his bayonet, but the tip of the steel flashed a good hair's breadth behind Rollo's back.
A ragged, ill-aimed volley was the parting salute. The two British lads were through the enemy's lines.