Morestal thought of the precipitous hill which he had described to Dourlowski as the way up to the frontier from the Albern Woods, by the Cold Spring, the Fontaine-Froide. In all certainty, somebody was scaling the upper portion of that precipice, clinging on to the branches and dragging himself along the pebbles.
"A deserter!" whispered Jorancé. "No nonsense now!"
But Morestal pushed him away and began to run to where the two roads crossed. At the very moment when he reached the spot, a man appeared, all frenzied and out of breath, and stammered, in French:
"Save me!... I've been given away!... I'm frightened!..."
Morestal seized hold of him and flung him off the road:
"Run!... Look sharp!... Straight ahead of you!"
There was the report of a rifle. The man staggered, with a moan; but he was evidently only wounded, for, after a few seconds, he drew himself up and made off through the woods.
A chase ensued forthwith. Four or five Germans crossed the frontier and set off in pursuit of the fugitive, swearing as they went, while their comrades, forming the greater number, turned towards Morestal.
Jorancé took him round the waist and compelled him to recoil:
"This way," he said, "over there.... They won't dare ..."