Without a word the Belgian sergeant crawled along the trench, picking up the rifles and caps of the slain and placing them at intervals along the top of the mound; while the rest, including Kenneth and Rollo, who had taken possession of a couple of abandoned rifles, maintained a rapid magazine fire at the approaching troops.
"Each for himself, mes enfants," said the veteran at length. "One at a time and trust to luck."
With that a corporal cast aside his greatcoat and heavy knapsack. He was about to make a plunge through the zone of hissing bullets when Kenneth stopped him.
"There's a ditch farther along," he announced. "We came that way."
The man hesitated, then, communicated the news to his sergeant.
"Come then, mes braves," exclaimed the veteran.
One by one, crawling along the ditch the five made their way, till they gained the comparative shelter afforded by the walls of a ruined cottage. Proof against bullets, the house had been practically demolished by shell-fire.
"We must go back and get our bikes," declared Kenneth. "It's fairly safe. Those fellows are apparently directing their fire against those caps and rifles showing above the trench."
They found their steeds uninjured. In record time they were in the saddle and tearing along the avenue, which here and there was dotted with dead Belgians. The wounded had evidently been carried off by their comrades.
As they passed the ruined cottage where they had parted from the three soldiers the latter were no longer to be seen, but a hoarse cry of "A moi, camarades!" caused Rollo to turn. He alone caught the appeal, for Kenneth had secured a slight start and the noise of his engine had drowned the shout for aid.