''Sh! Keep still! Something comin'!'
The distant gun-fire had diminished. There were appreciable silences between the blasts. But during a flash Macgregor detected a helmeted crawling shape. Willie's hand stole out and grasped the bayonet.
'Number twa!' he muttered, with a stealthy movement. 'I maun get him!'
But Macgregor's ears caught a faint sound that caused him to grip the other's wrist.
'Wait,' he whispered.
The helmeted shape came on, looking neither to right nor left, and as it came it sobbed. And it passed within a few yards of them, and into the deeper gloom, sobbing, sobbing.
'Oh, Christ!' sighed Willie, shuddering.
'Put yer arm roun' me, Mac. I'm feart.'
Five minutes later he affected to jeer at himself. 'Weel, I'm rested noo,' he continued, 'an' it's time we was gettin' a move on. Mornin's comin', an' if we're spotted here, we're done for. Can ye creep?'
Macgregor tried and let out a little yelp.