"We shall have to go across the fields," whispered Pariset, when the horsemen had gone by. "We dare not pass them. This means a general advance to-morrow. The bosches lose no time."
They struck across the fields to the south of their true course, and plodded on, more or less at a venture. Turning by and by into a lane, they almost collided with a cyclist, who, swerving to avoid them, skidded on the wet track, and fell to the ground. The sinking moon shed just enough light for them to distinguish a French uniform, and they ran forward to assist the fallen man, Pariset speaking to him in French.
"Ah! You are French?" said the cyclist, springing to his feet and raising his bicycle.
"Belgian and English, monsieur," Pariset answered. "You are a scout?"
"Yes; a troop of Chasseurs are a mile or two south. Have you seen anything of the enemy?"
"A number of Uhlans are riding up the Waremme road."
"How many?"
"Twenty-five or so."
"Are they riding fast?"
"No; at a walking pace."