A sound close at hand drew his mind to his ears.
The crest of the shingle-bank was some twenty yards away. From the reverse slope came the crunch and scream of disturbed pebbles.
Somebody was scrambling up the bank towards him, the pebbles pouring noisily away beneath his feet.
What to do?—turn and bolt? He could be back across the grass before the slow-foot Frenchman had sworn himself to the crest. Lie there out in the open, to be made prisoner, or potted at thirty yards?
No, no, no! To retreat was shame: to stay death. But one course remained—the riskiest, which, as he had heard the Parson say, in a tight place is often the safest. That course was forward. Take the man unawares as he crested the rise; dirk him; one swift glimpse at the lugger and the doings in the creek; and then pelting home before the enemy had realised the situation and begun to shout.
"François! François!" came an irritable voice.
The climber stopped.
"Qu'as-tu donc, mon Caporal?"
"Nom d'un chien!" snapped the other. "Faut il me faire matelot? Aidez moi un peu avec ces satanées cordes!"
The climber slithered down on his heels, a cataract of shingle streaming behind him.