"Grenadiers!" rang an imperious voice from out of the ground.
Kit jumped round.
The Gentleman's head was thrust through the manhole; his eyes sweeping the greensward.
Fighting Fitz had seized the situation in a glance. Could he thrust his Grenadiers between the boys and the cottage, victory was his.
Lifting himself on his hands, his head thrown back, he sent the singing voice that the veterans of the Prussian Guard had heard at Marengo out of the cloud as Kellerman's Green Brigade roared down on them—he sent it swinging over grass and knoll,
"À la maison, mes enfants!"
Kit did not hesitate. Dirk in hand, he leapt at the head flashing in the sun. Here, in the heat and hell of battle, he had no thought of mercy.
The Gentleman heard the patter of his coming, and swept about.
"Sold again, Little Chap!" he laughed, and bobbed underground.
The chance was gone. There was not a second to be lost.