Down and down they went, till Dick felt certain they had descended nearly five hundred feet. At some distance in front of them rose another line of hills—the last natural barrier before they reached the historic Plains of Troy.
Suddenly the midshipman's foot caught in the exposed root of a gnarled and dwarfed tree, and with a stifled exclamation he pitched upon his hands and knees.
"Halt! Who goes there?" demanded a voice in unmistakable English, so close that the Sub nearly ran upon the point of a bayonet that glittered in the starlight.
"Friends," replied the Sub promptly.
"Maybe," retorted the sentry. "All the same, blessed if I likes the cut of your rig. So hands up, and no blessed fuss or I'll fire."
Obediently Dick raised his grey-sleeved arms, while the midshipman, regaining his feet, followed his example. Then a second figure joined the first, and a torch flashed upon the faces of the two officers.
"Germans, by smoke!" exclaimed the first sentry. "Bloomin' officers, too. I'll take good care these fellows don't give me the slip."
"Bluejackets!" ejaculated the Sub.
"Stow your bloomin' lip," ordered the sentry menacingly.
Dick complied, mentally picturing the seaman's confusion when the identity of the supposed prisoners was established.