“Excellency, your pardon on my insisting; pass whither you will. All is well.”
“That is good, fellow,” Phil cried. “Come, comrades, we have business with the Malakoff.”
Another fire minutes, and the sentry and trench were passed. Skirting by the great fortress, they bore up for the British trenches, crossing as they did so several rows of ditches and earthworks. Then they lay down and listened. Close at hand there was a hum of voices, while away on the left a sharp musketry fire was being maintained, the flicker of the exploding powder cutting the darkness at every second. In front all was pitch blackness in the valley in which they stood, but higher up on the elopes beyond fires were burning, and dark figures were occasionally silhouetted against them as they passed.
“Now for it!” whispered Phil. “If there is any firing lie on your faces. We don’t want to be killed by our own side.”
Sneaking through the mud and mire on hands and knees the three crept forward in absolute silence. Soon the last trench was passed, and the British earthworks loomed in the distance. At last they were close to liberty and friends. Not more than sixty yards separated them, and already the murmur of the men’s voices could be heard, when, with a sharp exclamation, Phil disappeared.
There was a scuffle, a startled cry of astonishment and fear, and the loud report of a musket.
“Quick, help me!” Phil cried from the rifle-pit into which he had fallen. Then there was a choked cry, and all was silence for a few moments.
With a growl of rage Tony threw himself into the pit, almost smashing Phil as he fell.
“That you, Tony?” the latter asked coolly.
“Yes, it’s me sure enough, mate. Are yer hurt, old man?”