Ten seconds later every soldier was on the alert, ready for action. Then in the light of the dying day they saw a number of men marching from behind the trees.
"They look like our own men," said Corporal West; "still, them blessed
Germans' uniform seems just the same colour as our own in this light."
A minute later some English words rang out in the still evening air.
"We're the Lancashire Fusiliers," said a voice.
"Wait a minute," said Bob to the corporal. "I am going to see who they are before taking any risks."
He covered the intervening space in less than a minute, and saw that the other party was not quite so large as his own, but still of considerable strength. They wore, as far as he could judge, the English uniform, and gave evidence that they were our own soldiers.
Barely had he reached the man whom he supposed to be the officer, however, than from behind the trees a dozen more rushed to him, whom he had not hitherto seen. A second later, he was surrounded.
"Speak one word, and you're a dead man," was the cry. Bob knew what this meant. If his soldiers remained in ignorance, and were unable to give alarm to the general army, the enemy could easily surprise them and have them at advantage. Without a second's hesitation, however, and unmindful of his own danger, he shouted aloud:
"They're Germans. Fire!"
Almost at the same moment there was a crash of rifle shots, and the men around him fell by scores. It seemed almost miraculous that he himself was untouched, but, before he had time to say another word, a huge German struck him with the butt-end at his revolver, and he felt himself hastily dragged away.