“No, no, my child. Lie still. We must not stir yet.”
It was not till nightfall that they could venture to leave the wood, and it was by guesswork, for the stars were clouded over, that the Doctor made for what he believed to be the south, but not to go far in the darkness, on account of the twinkling fires which shone out here and there as if all around them. That night they slept in another pine wood, to keep on starting up from time to time during the night, awakened now by a shot, and twice over by the sound of a bugle, which came from the direction of the watch fires.
There was no further engagement during the next day, but every attempt to get out of the wood in which they sheltered was in vain; for they were surrounded by the troops dotted here and there, as if watching for the next attack.
They had not come away empty-handed, but the food given to them by their French hostess had come to an end, and at a word from the Doctor, as evening fell, Phil sprang to his feet.
“Yes,” he cried, “they won’t see us now. Oh, how I wish I was different, Dr Martin! But I can’t help it.”
“Different?” said the old man, pressing his shoulder. “In what way? Why?”
“I keep on getting so hungry and wanting to eat, when I know I ought to be patient and wait.”
“Poor boy,” said the Doctor, with a little laugh. “How strange that you should be perfectly natural, Phil, eh? There, we’ll make a brave effort to get right away now, and perhaps we shall find another French friend whose husband is away in the fight.”
“And then we could sleep in a bed once more,” said Phil after a long silence, during which they had been pressing on, with the bushes through which they passed rustling loudly.
“Yes, after a splendid supper,” replied the Doctor, in French.