CHAPTER XXXII
The Rewards of Valour
Von Dussel's head must have been as hard as his black heart, for he had recovered his senses at the moment Wetherby died, and a mighty gust of passion swept over Dennis Dashwood's soul.
"He can't be far off, and I'll find him if I die for it. Get you back to cover, Hawke."
"Is it likely?" cried his companion, giving vent to his overcharged feelings by a very ugly laugh, which changed into a howl of delight as a bullet grazed the tip of his ear. "There he is, sir, hiding in that there crater!—and he's some shot too—look out!"
Von Dussel, armed with a rifle—there were scores lying about littering the ground—lodged his second bullet in the leather case that held Dennis's field glasses, and, instantly dividing, the two ran a zigzag course towards the crater as they saw his head dodging down.
It was not twenty yards away, but as they reached it, one on either flank, they saw their prey scramble out of the opposite side and bolt like a hare across the open ground beyond.
There were two shell-holes in the distance, for one of which he was obviously making, but just as Hawke dropped to his knee and covered him with his rifle, the German searchlights went out, leaving everything pitch dark.
"That's done us, Hawke," cried Dennis bitterly, as the marksman of A Company fired a random shot.