“Can you walk at all?” said Roberts quietly.
Gedge rose quickly.
“Yus, sir,” he cried. “There, it aren’t half so bad now. Felt as if I hadn’t got no foot at all for a time. Hurts a bit, sir. Here, I’m all right.”
Roberts looked at him keenly without speaking. Then he cried:
“Rise quickly at the word; take two paces to the right, and drop into cover again. Make ready. Attention!”
The little manoeuvre was performed, and it had the expected result. A scattered volley of twenty or thirty shots made the twigs about them fly, the fire of the enemy being drawn—the fire of old-fashioned, long-barrelled matchlocks, which took time to reload and prime.
“Forward!” cried Roberts again, and at a walk the retreat was continued, the Captain keeping close beside Gedge, who marched in step with his comrades, though with a marked limp, which he tried hard to conceal.
After a brief pause the firing started again, but fortunately the growth upon the river-bank began to get thicker, hiding them from their foes; though, on the other hand, it grew unmistakably plain that more and more of the enemy were lying in wait, so that the position grew worse, for the rushing river curved in towards the occupied eminences on the retiring party’s left.
“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Gedge suddenly; “I can double now.”
“Silence, my lad! Keep on steadily.”