The road they were now following was gradually converging upon the line of resting troops. Unless it made a bend to the right it would cut through the mass of German soldiery. And perhaps the officer whose name was on the envelope might be within close distance. His acquaintance neither Kenneth nor Rollo had the faintest desire to make.
So suddenly that Kenneth almost overshot it, a narrow lane, running at right angles to the direction in which they were travelling, came into view. It separated two infantry regiments, while at the cross-roads two machine-guns commanded the approach from the westward.
In an instant Kenneth made up his mind. Round swung the motor-bike, grazing one of the machine-guns by a bare inch; then, at full speed, Kenneth began his hazardous dash for safety. He had not ignored the risk, but there was a chance of success. The lane wound considerably, and, before the machine-guns could open fire, the fugitives would be screened by a bend of the tree-lined avenue.
A dozen voices shouted to him to stop. A bullet whistled high above the heads of the fugitives. A soldier, more alert than his comrades, had let loose a hasty, ill-aimed shot. Other bullets followed, some hitting the ground, others zipping overhead; but to Kenneth's relief there was no tap-tap of the deadly machine-guns.
"An outpost, by Jove!" muttered Kenneth.
He had not reckoned upon this. A quarter of a mile in advance of the line of bivouacs were a dozen infantrymen, lying hidden in a copse. Hearing the rifle-firing they started to their feet.
Kenneth never attempted to slacken his pace. He realized that everything depended upon speed. Before the outposts could solve the mystery of two men in Uhlan uniforms tearing towards them, the motor-cycle with its double burden was upon them. They gave back. One man attempted to lunge with his bayonet, but the tip of the steel flashed a good hair's breadth behind Rollo's back.
A ragged, ill-aimed volley was the parting salute. The two British lads were through the enemy's lines.