Little wonder in that. The French had dug these trenches and Sergeant Tremp knew them as he did the paths in the environs of his native village.
At a dark corner he clucked with his tongue and brought them to a halt.
"This is it, Major," he whispered, after peering about.
"Good!" ejaculated the officer softly. "Let me step ahead, Mademoiselle. Cling to my belt behind. Try to walk in my footsteps."
"Yes," she breathed.
Tremp seemed to melt into the darkness. Major Marchand turned at an abrupt angle and Ruth followed him as he had desired. She knew they were passing through a very narrow passage. The earth was scraped from the walls by their elbows and rattled down upon their feet.
The passage rose slightly. The bottom of the trench they had just left—the very front line—was all of thirty feet in depth at this point. This narrow tunnel was thrust out into No Man's Land and led to a listening post.
At least, so she supposed, and she was not mistaken. Nor was she mistaken in her supposition that Tremp was no longer with them. He was not prepared to cross the Savoie morass.
A breath of sweeter air blew upon Ruth's cheek.
"Down!" whispered the major. They almost crawled the final few yards.