The rattle of musketry broke out ahead of them. Some of the men, getting in advance of the line, had been fired on from the bush in which the long, single street of the village terminated. As if by magic, though no one knew whence it came, the word passed down the ranks: "Ironian troops are firing on us." And, as a natural corollary, the most discerning saw and voiced what had happened.
"We have burned an Ironian village," said the officer who rode by Crane.
The latter sensed trouble.
"No you don't," came sharply from the Austrian, as Crane put spurs into his horse.
But the Englishman was putting yards and more yards between him and the officer. He did not hesitate now. He knew that his safety depended upon his ability to get away at once. Kicking the steel into his horse's flanks, he started into a wild gallop. Guttural but loud shouts behind him warned him of impending retribution—if they could shoot straight. Instinctively he dropped flat over his horse's neck. Shots rang out and one bullet ploughed through his hair, touching and grazing his forehead in its passage. The blood trickled down over his brow and filtered over his eyes. He brushed it away and found he had not been badly hurt. But a moment later another shot apparently hit his horse, for the animal screamed, stumbled, and lunged forward on its knees.
Crane hurtled over its head and came down with a thud on the rough muddy road.
CHAPTER XXIII
CRANE'S ESCAPE
When Crane returned to consciousness he found himself lying in a cramped and painful position on a rough clay surface.
He fell into a violent fit of coughing. The atmosphere about him was smoke-charged and stiflingly close and hot. A steady, crackling sound above gradually impressed itself upon his groping mind with startling import. He was lying under the shelter of a burning building.