“Are you ready? I am going to spring.”
He placed the middle of his foot in Martin's up-stretched palm, gave a light spring and a scramble, and reached the summit of the wall. Martin could perceive him for a moment against the sky.
“All right,” he whispered, and disappeared.
Martin had not returned many yards along the road they had come when he heard pattering steps in the mud behind him. It was Kosmaroff, breathless.
“Quick!” he whispered. “Quick!”
And he scrambled into the saddle while the horse was still moving. He was, it must be remembered, a trained soldier. He led the way at a gallop, stooping in the saddle to secure the swinging stirrups. Martin had to use his spurs to bring his horse alongside. Shoulder to shoulder they splashed on in the darkness.
“I went right in,” gasped Kosmaroff. “The arms are gone. The place is full of men. There is a sotnia drawn up in the yard itself. It is an ambuscade. We have failed—failed—this time!”
“We must stop the carts, and then ride on and disperse the men,” said Martin. “We may do it. We may succeed. It is a good night for such work.”
Kosmaroff gave a short, despairing laugh.
“Ah!” he said. “You are full of hope—you.”