They climbed up the ridge and reached the top, when by a common impulse they stopped. Borne upward faintly on the misty, wet-laden air, was a rumbling, grinding noise, accompanied by a kind of sullen hum like the buzzing of millions of bees.
‘Do you hear that, Will?’ cried Jack, clutching his companion’s arm.
‘Guns,’ said Will.
‘Men,’ said Jack, ‘in thousands too.’
‘Let’s make sure,’ said Will.
They descended the side of the ridge and presently through the mist could make out the ghostly forms of men marching in files closely packed, passing, passing, apparently without end. Then came the grinding of wheels on the gritty ground, accompanied by the jangling of chains and harness, as gun after gun went by.
Jack and Will reascended the ridge, and then far away on their left similar sounds of marching thousands and numberless guns could be heard.
‘The enemy is marching in overwhelming numbers,’ said Jack. ‘Our camp is asleep. In this fog it will be surprised. Will, come on; on our efforts perhaps depend the lives of hundreds of our countrymen.’
‘We must give them warning,’ said Will; and at top speed the intrepid Lancers started off. On and on they went, directed by the sounds of the advancing Russians.
These, to some extent, they were presently enabled to leave behind; but on the right and left ominous rumblings could still be heard.