Jim and Desmond gave a despairing gasp, and turned, ducking and twisting as they fled. Bullets whistled past them.
“Are you hit?” Jim called.
“No. Are you?”
“No. There’s nothing but the river.”
They raced on madly, their bare feet making no sound. Behind them the pursuit thudded, and occasionally a rifle cracked; not so much in the hope of hitting the twisting fugitives, as to warn the river sentries of their coming. The Germans were not hurrying; there was no escape, they knew! Father Rhine and his guardians would take care of their quarry.
Jim jogged up beside Desmond.
“We’ve just a chance,” he said—“if we ever get to the river. You can swim under water?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then keep as close to the bank as you can—the shots may go over you. We’ll get as near the blockhouses as we dare before we dive. Keep close.”
He was the better runner, and he drew ahead, Desmond hard at his heels. The broad river gleamed in front—there were men with rifles silhouetted against its silver. Then a merciful cloud-bank drifted across the moon, and the shots whistled harmlessly in the sudden darkness. Jim felt the edge of the bank under his feet.