"Now he'll be moving," thought Dudley.
His surmise proved correct, for first the upper part of the head and then the face and shoulders of a man appeared above a ridge of ground.
Wilmshurst stirred neither hand nor foot, lest in spite of the screen afforded by the bush his movements might be noticed by the alert scout.
Followed a few long-drawn moments of suspense as the scout made a careful survey by means of his field-glasses. Apparently satisfied he replaced the binoculars and carrying his rifle at the trail prepared to descend the knoll.
Deliberately and cautiously Wilmshurst glanced along the sights of his rifle. He would wait, he decided, until Fritz was some distance from his lair. It would give him a chance to get in a couple of shots if the first perchance should miss.
With his body from the waist upwards showing clearly against the copper-hued clouds the Hun offered a splendid target.
Gently the subaltern's finger crept to the trigger. In his interest in his foe he forgot the stinging, throbbing pain. The rifle, supported by the fork of the tree, was as steady as a rock.
Just as Wilmshurst was about to press the trigger a lurid blinding flash seemed to leap from the ground immediately on his front. With the echoes of an appalling crash that shook the solid earth ringing in his ears Dudley found himself gazing blankly ahead but seeing nothing. Dazzled by the sudden intensity of light, deafened by the concussion, he was conscious of a vile, sulphurous odour assailing his nostrils.
Gradually the mist decreased until he was able to see with comparative ease. His first thought was for his rifle; he was agreeably surprised to find that it was intact, for it seemed marvellous that the lightning had missed the steel barrel.
Then he looked in the direction of his enemy. The Hun was lying prone, his head pillowed on his arm. The other, curiously enough, was projecting obliquely in the air. All around the grass was burning, while already the luckless man's uniform was smouldering.