Gaining the courtyard of the inn, the lads made sure that the German cavalrymen had, no doubt reluctantly, ceased to pester the troubled host with their attentions.
"Your motor-cycles are safe, messieurs," announced the innkeeper. "Ciel! Once those Bosches get wedded to the bottle——" and he threw up his hands and raised his eyebrows with a gesture of utter dismay.
Refusing any payment for his services, and charging only for the coffee, the landlord escorted the two British dispatch-riders to yet another door, opening into a deserted street.
"Take the third turning to the right, messieurs," he directed; "it will bring you on the high road. Yet I accept no responsibility; so take care. The Uhlans—le diable les importe!—may be prowling about."
Having walked their cycles till they felt fairly certain that the noise of the engines would not reach the ears of the German raiders, the dispatch-riders set off at a furious pace towards the position occupied by their regiment.
Suddenly Kenneth raised his hand, at the same time stopping his motor. Rollo likewise dismounted.
"Uhlans!" whispered Kenneth.
A mile or so ahead were hundreds of cavalry, the men standing easy, while the horses were picketed in lines. Apparently the enemy had thrown a strong wedge far into the position held a few hours previously by Belgian troops.
"If those fellows are acting as supports to the crowd that entered Tongres, we are nicely trapped, by Jove!" remarked Kenneth. "The best thing we can do is to risk cutting across the fields, although, frankly, I don't relish the idea of making towards that wooded district. It is too jolly favourable for an ambush."
"Half a minute," rejoined Rollo, unstrapping the case of his binoculars. "Let's make sure. Kenneth, old man, it's all right. These chaps are Belgian lancers."