In her soul she cried already, not Nous les aurons, but Il les a.
"They'll see us," said Dick. "When I say 'run!' make for that gorse-bush. I'll be behind, overdoing my limp. When I say 'down!' fall—sprained ankle. I try to pull you up. You grip your ankle and yell. They'll be out of the car and after us. When they're close, I shall bolt across the road. Yell out 'don't leave me.' They won't touch you—they're after me—I've got the stuff. When they're well away, get back to the car. Get in. Can you drive her?"
"Yes, it's a Seely-Thompson."
"Get her round, head to the rise, ready to pick me up. Got it?"
"Yes," said Amaryllis.
From the car came a queer animal cry. The machine shot suddenly forward.
Deceived by the immobility of the waiting pair, the driver had increased his pace.
"Run!" said Dick, and Amaryllis leapt the ditch at the roadside and ran in the direction he had given. He followed clumsily, exaggerating his lameness.
The car shot by them, as they ran obliquely in the opposite direction, so adding, before the driver could pull up, a hundred yards to their start.
It was, therefore, not until Amaryllis was at the rise of the ridge that they heard behind them the two pairs of feet in pursuit.