“It’s all right,” said Ingleborough coolly; “they’re firing at random. It’s impossible to take aim on a night like this! Can you see them?”
“No; only the flashes!” said West excitedly.
“That’s enough! Then they can’t see us! We’re through their lines too, for they’re firing behind us, and I’ll back our horses to beat theirs in a race.”
Reports now began to ring out on their right, and directly after they came from their left.
“Shall we shout?” whispered West.
“No. What for?”
“We must be getting among our own people!”
“No such luck, my lad! Keep steadily on! Ah! Poor beast!”
“What is it?” said West excitedly, as his mount stopped short, obeying its natural instinct and the love of companionship of a gregarious animal. For Ingleborough’s pony had suddenly uttered a peculiar neighing cry, reared up, and fallen backwards.
“Are you hurt?” whispered West again.