A German sergeant jumped out of the grass before him, and the butt of Klein's rifle crushed the man's skull as though it were a nut. Another man—a native—a second later was dropped to the ground, with a blow that would have felled an ox. A third rushed upon the maniac, and so tremendous was the stroke that sent him to his death that Klein's rifle broke at the small of the butt.
Still the ex-spy was undefeated. With the steel barrel in one hand and his revolver in the other, he went onward in the dark, filling the night with an infinity of savage and appalling yells.
[CHAPTER XIX—War to the Knife]
Ten minutes later Peter Klein stopped dead, looking about him with wild, staring eyes. The night was cold—for they were still at a great altitude—and the breath was pumping from his nostrils as it does with a horse. However, he was given little time to rest, for Harry, running forward, seized him by the arm.
"Get on!" cried the boy. "We're not out of danger yet."
On they went, racing for freedom, crossing hills and minor valleys, passing beneath trees, and sometimes knee-deep in the water of forest streams.
For a time they heard the guttural voices of the Germans behind them. At last these became inaudible in the distance. The soldiers were not able to follow on their tracks, since they had no way of knowing which route the fugitives had taken.
At last Harry deemed it safe to call a halt.
Klein, who was still running like one possessed, had to be stopped by force. He would not desist from flight, until Jim Braid had tripped him up. Harry, followed by Fernando, came upon them shortly afterwards.
"See," cried Harry, pointing to the east, "there comes the dawn! In half an hour it will be daylight."