“Ah!” cried the old man, drawing him in amongst the trees; “that was running into fresh danger. Look!”
Phil was already looking at a line of men who seemed to have suddenly started out of the ground a hundred yards away.
At the same moment the Doctor threw himself down amongst the thick growth, dragging his companion with him.
“Lie close,” he whispered, and it was well that they were both lying flat, for there was a flash of light, a long line of smoke, and in response to a sharp pattering sound a little shower of twigs and leaves came dropping around.
This was answered by firing evidently from the other side of the wood again and again, the reports each time sounding more and more distant, while as Phil lay flat upon his face he could hear trampling and the sounds of men hurrying among the trees right past them, two coming so near that the boy wondered that they were not seen.
“Don’t speak, my boy,” whispered the Doctor, as he held Phil’s hand, though the words were not needed, for the boy’s attention was so taken up by the exciting events that surrounded him that he was all eyes and ears for the next thing that should happen.
For the soldiers that passed on, firing as they went, seemed to receive a check, and were driven back, filling the wood with smoke, which hung low and seemed to cling to the lower branches of the trees. But the men recovered their ground and passed on once more, the firing growing more distant.
“Now,” said the Doctor, at last, “let’s try again, boy.”
A sharp volley from another direction was followed by the pattering down of more twigs and leaves, and the Doctor uttered a groan and laid his hand upon Phil’s head to press it closer to the ground.
“Are you hurt, Dr Martin?” whispered the boy, raising himself suddenly in the fear that he now felt for the first time.