I followed him, and our previous experience was repeated, with the difference that we kicked against a basket that had been dropped or thrown away as worthless, and soon after, on leaving one of the houses which was larger than those we had before examined, but as utterly silent, there was a click which I took to be the cocking of a musket, and imitated Brace’s movement, for he stooped down, but rose again sharply.
“Feel here,” he whispered, as he let his sword hang from his wrist by the knot, and pressed something into my hand. “What is this?”
“A cavalry sabre,” I said directly, in an excited tone.
“Yes; one of ours. Now am I right, lad? They must be here, and we are pretty close to their quarters. Can you hear the horses?”
I listened attentively, but there was not a sound, and once more we proceeded till one of my feet went down. I stumbled and nearly fell.
“Hurt?” whispered Brace.
“No. I only stepped in a deep rut.”
“Rut?” he said sharply; “where?”
He was down on his knees instantly, feeling with his hands, and I heard him breathe hard.
“Yes, I am right,” he whispered. “That rut was made by the wheels of one of our guns; the cart-marks are distinct. No native cart would have cut into the ground like that. Forward.”