"Could we but once slip between the men, I think we should be swift-footed enough to shake them off," remarked Felgate. "What with their breastplates and headpieces their running would be like to that of Goliath of Gath."
"True!" replied Drake. "But with these wretched wooden shoes----" and he pointed meaningly at his feet.
"We can make out that they gall our heels, and take them off for a while; then at the favourable moment--you, Drake, can give the word--we'll make a dash for freedom."
"And after----?" I enquired.
"That remains to be seen," rejoined Felgate.
While we conversed I could not help noticing that the sergeant eyed us sharply more than once; and whether it was merely fancy or not, I could not help thinking that I had seen him before. But as very few Dutchmen had made my acquaintance (and these only as enemies) I dismissed the idea from my mind.
The man was short, thick-set, with a heavy beard that concealed most of his features, but the look in his eyes betokened that he was no infant in the art of war, and could, if occasion served, prove a harsh taskmaster.
At length the order was given to proceed. At a mile from Delft, Felgate began to limp. His example was quickly followed by Drake, and shortly after I adopted the same ruse, though in reality I had good cause to do so, the unaccustomed nature of my footgear beginning to have an ill effect.
Soon Drake stopped, pointed to his shoes, and made signs that he could not walk farther. The pikemen came to a halt and looked at us sympathetically, while the sergeant talked volubly. We seized the opportunity of pulling off the klompen and replacing our own shoes, and the march was resumed.
The country was perfectly flat, as hitherto, but the dykes were at a greater distance from the road. Though they shut in our range of vision we knew that dry land lay beyond, as we could discern several windmills, roofs of houses, and trees on the other side.