The door had opened an inch. His heart beat wildly, and he crouched close to the crevice.

'Mathews!' he gasped.

'Sh-sh.' An admonishing hand touched him. 'Come close, sir. This is a dirty business, Mas'r d.i.c.k. If you hear me cough noticeable, get back and pretend like you're asleep.'

'But--but, in G.o.d's name, what are you doing there?'

'I'm a-guardin' you, sir. Sh-sh.'

The old groom moved a couple of paces away from the door, humming a song about a coachman who loved a turnkey's daughter. Almost mad with excitement, d.i.c.k stood in the darkness of the hut with his outstretched arms shaking and quivering. He was afraid he would shout, and bit his finger-nails to help to repress the wild desire.

'Mas'r d.i.c.k.'

In an instant he was crouching again by the door.

'There'll be a orficer's inspection,' whispered the sentry, 'a minute or two arter midnight. When that there little ceremony has took place, you and me is goin' for a walk.'

'Where?'

'Anywheres, Mas'r d.i.c.k.'

'You mean--to escape?'

'Precisely so, sir.'

For a moment his pulses beat furiously with hope; but the realisation of what it meant for the old groom killed it like a sudden frost. 'No, Mathews,' he whispered. 'It isn't fair to you. I am not going to try to escape. Give me your hand; I want to say good-bye.'

For answer, the imperturbable Mathews moved off again, and, in a soft but most unmusical ba.s.s, sang the second verse about the amorous coachman and the susceptible turnkey's daughter. d.i.c.k listened, hanging greedily on every little sound with its atmosphere of Roselawn.

'Mas'r d.i.c.k.' Mathews had returned. 'No argifyin' won't get you nowhere. If I have to knock you atwixt the ears and drag you out by the 'eels, you're comin' out o' that there stall to-night. I ain't goin' for to see a Durwent made a target of. No, sir; not if I have to blow the whole army up, and them frog-eaters along with 'em. Close that door, Mas'r d.i.c.k. I've got a contrary temper, and can't stand no argifyin' like. Close that door, sir.'

Almost crazed with excitement, d.i.c.k strode about the hut. Even if he were to get away, the chances of capture were overwhelming. But--to be shot in an open fight for freedom! That would be a thousand times better than death by an open grave. Freedom! The word was intoxication. To breathe the air of heaven once again--to feel the canopy of the stars--to smell the musk of flowers and new gra.s.s! If only for an hour; yet, what an hour!

And then the chance, remote, but still within the realm of possibility, of reaching the front line, where men died like men. Of all the desires he had ever known, none had gripped him like the longing for battle, where death and honour were inseparable.

But once more the thought of Mathews chilled his purpose. It would mean penal servitude or worse for the old groom, and he was not going to be the means of ruining him for his faithfulness. He could not stoop so low as that.

These and a hundred similar thoughts flashed through his mind, and he was no nearer their solution when the door was opened and a sergeant shouted a command. He started. For a second he thought that dawn might be breaking, and that his hour had arrived; but an officer came up the steps, and he saw with a quiver of relief that it was the nightly inspection.

'Everything all right?'

'Yes, sir,' he answered.

'Where's the chaplain?'

'He'll be back directly, sir.'

'Food all right--everything possible being done for you?'

'I have no complaints, sir.'

In the light of the lamp held by the sergeant the two men looked at each other. Without saying anything more, the officer glanced about the hut. 'That will do, sergeant.--Good-night.'

'Good-night, sir,' answered Durwent.

The officer had hardly reached the door, where the sergeant had preceded him with the light, when he turned back impulsively and put out his hand. 'I suppose this sort of thing is necessary,' he said hoa.r.s.ely; 'but it's a d.a.m.ned rotten affair altogether.'

They clasped hands; and turning on his heel, the officer left the hut.

'Take every precaution, sergeant,' d.i.c.k heard him say; 'and send a runner to the chaplain with my compliments. Tell him he must not leave the prisoner.'

'Very good, sir.'

Silence again--and the crunching of the sentries' heels on the spa.r.s.ely sprinkled gravel. The ordeal was becoming unbearable. d.i.c.k feared the pa.s.sing of the minutes which would bring back the chaplain, and yet every minute seemed an eternity. The conflict ravaged his very soul.

Was he to take the chance offered him by the strangest trick of Destiny, or remain and die like a rat caught in a trap?

'Mas'r d.i.c.k.'

The door was quietly opened. The old groom's hand fell on his arm and drew him firmly outwards. He tried to pull back, but with unexpected strength the older man exerted pressure, until d.i.c.k found himself outside.

It was so dark that he could not see a yard ahead of him as Mathews, retaining his grip on his companion's arm, led him towards the road.

They were nearly clear of the field, when the groom stopped abruptly, and they lay flat on the ground. It was the orderly officer and the sergeant returning from the inspection of a hut some distance off.

'Sentry.' The officer had paused opposite the hut where the prisoner had been.

'Yes, sir,' came the answer from the soldier still on guard at the other door.

'Has the chaplain returned?'

'Not yet, sir.'

With an impatient exclamation, the officer went on towards the village; and gaining their feet, the two men reached the road.

'There's a path alongside, sir,' whispered Mathews, 'and you and me is goin' to put as much terry-firmy atwixt this village and us as our four legs can do. Now, sir, we're off!'

With lowered heads, they broke into a run. Stumbling over unseen stones, lacerating their hands and faces against bushes which over-hung the path, they ran on into the dark. Once a staff car pa.s.sed them, and they huddled in a ditch; but it was only for a few seconds, and they were up again. Unless they were unfortunate enough to run right into the arms of the military police, the night was offering every chance of success. A barking dog warned them that they had come to the outskirts of another village. Leaving the road, they circled the place by tortuously making their way through uneven fields, until they thought it safe once more to take the path. On they ran--past silent fields--by streams--by murky swamps.

Towards dawn d.i.c.k was faint with fatigue. The ordeal of the last month had cruelly sapped his vitality, and as he ran he found himself stumbling to his knees.

'Hold hard, sir,' said the groom, who was leading. 'Another mile or so, and you and me, sir, will breathe ourselves proper.'

Only another mile--but a mile of utter anguish. Twice d.i.c.k fell, and the second time he could not rise without a.s.sistance.

'Mas'r d.i.c.k,' pleaded the groom, 'look 'ee, sir. Up yonder hill somewheres about I knows there is a cornfield, for I have noted it many a time. 'We can't hide here, sir, in this stubble. Lean on me, Mas'r d.i.c.k--that's the way. Now, sir, for England, 'ome, and beauty.'

Struggling to retain his consciousness, d.i.c.k limped beside the old servitor, until, gaining the hill, they saw an abandoned cornfield.

There was a roll of guns as they made their way into the field, and through the dense blackness of the night a few streaks of gray could be seen towards the east.