"Why have we not turned out the bloodhounds, sir?" asked a captain. "The scent must be hot."
"Ach, I know not!" was the reply.
"All the dogs were taken across to Sandinsel yesterday, Herr Major," announced another officer, a tall, fair-haired subaltern. "Colonel Dietrich wished to try the hounds on a trail laid on the sand."
"And, as a result, we have two English spies roaming over the island," added the major. Then, giving the order to march, he led the four companies under his command up the steep incline. "Now the fun commences," observed Detroit, when all seemed quiet once more. "Thank goodness they have no suspicions that we made our way here!"
"And it's lucky for us that the bloodhounds are away," rejoined Hamerton. "One never knows; they might be able to follow a trail in spite of a couple of ounces of pepper."
Before Detroit could express his opinion a deep baying sound came from the heights above.
Both men looked at each other as if to say: "We counted our chickens before they were hatched;" then, without a word, they made their way to a different part of their place of concealment whence they could command a view of the summit of the artificial cliffs.
Standing out clearly against the white drifting clouds were four large hounds. With their noses almost touching the ground they moved deliberately and unhesitatingly, while behind them walked a number of officers and men, the latter armed with rifles and bayonets.
The bloodhounds, keeping close to the brink of the abyss, gradually approached the spot where the inclined plane met the level ground of the tableland. Here they paused but for a brief instant; then they began to trot straight towards the fugitives' hiding place.
"They've tracked us right enough," muttered the Sub dejectedly.