“Them! Who?”
“Didn’t you see?”
“I saw nothing.”
“I did—bayonets, just below yonder. Soldiers marching.”
“Soldiers?” whispered Pen joyfully. “They may be some of our men.”
“That they are not. They are French.”
French they undoubtedly were; for as the lads peered cautiously from their hiding-place, and listened to the rustling and tramp of many feet, an order rang out which betrayed the nationality of what seemed to be a large body of men coming in their direction.
“Keep snug,” whispered Punch, “and they won’t see us. It’s too close here.”
Pen gripped his companion’s arm, and lay trying to catch sight of the marching men for some minutes with a satisfied feeling that the troops were bearing away from them. But his heart sank directly after; a bugle-call rang out, the men again changed their direction, the line extended, and it became plain that they would pass right over the ground where the two lads lay.
“I am afraid they will see us, Punch,” whispered Pen. “What’s to be done?”