Suddenly one of them called out in French:
“Qui vive? (Who goes there?) Is it thou, Picard?”
Clark started violently. It was the voice of the missing adjutant. With admirable presence of mind he imitated the voice and rustic accent of the gardener, answering:
“It is I, indeed. Has the doctor gone back yet? My wife is sick.”
“The doctor went back at sunset,” answered Frank, “but here is Poirier, the hospital steward. He and I were coming over to break a bottle with thee, Picard; but, since thy wife is sick, Poirier shall do what he can.”
“Come on then, in God’s name,” said Clark, turning away to aid the stratagem. “You have a lancet to let blood, without doubt. Hasten, ere it be too late. She has fits.”
“Come on, Poirier,” cried the little adjutant; and the hospital steward, completely deceived, hurried along after Clark, until in the midst of the crouching borderers.
In another moment he was surrounded, and a dozen knives brandished at his throat, with a sternly whispered command to keep silence, if he valued his life.
The poor fellow was so overcome with terror that he dropped senseless in the road, and the little adjutant hurriedly said:
“Into the fort, colonel, like lightning. The garrison sleep. I’ll tell you how I fooled them when we’re safe. Not a moment is to be lost. I’ll show the way.”