In the Track of the Troops

by R. M. Ballantyne

“And what if I am willing to be shot in a good cause? I should be no greater hero than every man in your armies. But now, André, one more shake of your hand. We may never meet again, and I won’t part without saying I’ve taken a fancy to you.”

“God knows I can truly say the same to you,” cried André, leaping up with enthusiasm, and seizing the scout’s hand with a grasp as powerful as his own.

“And don’t be angry,” added Petroff, in a gentle tone, as he tightened his belt, “if I again urge you to keep the locket always in remembrance. You’re not likely ever to forget the auburn hair, but you may, lad, you may, for there is no perfection in this world, and soldiering is a dangerous life.”

André smiled half-contemptuously. He felt that the advice was needless. Petroff also smiled kindly, for he knew that it might be needful.

Neither of these men was very deeply impressed with the fact that keeping before the mental eye the Maker of the “auburn hair,” and of all other blessed human influences, was a better and safer refuge. But what matter? Does not our Creator in all His dealings make use of means? Does He not lead us step by step from a lower to a higher level? There are no ready-made human angels in this life, male or female, with full-grown wings to bear them over the troubles of earth to a state of sudden sanctification. We are in a rebel world, and, when lifted from the pit by a Saviour’s hand, the steps by which the Spirit of God leads us upwards are numerous as well as varied, including sometimes—I write without irreverence—such footholds as “auburn hair.”

Disguised as a Bulgarian rustic, Dobri Petroff left the Russian camp, passed the outposts, and, under cover of the fog, gained the neutral ground between the two armies.

Of course the sentries on both sides were numerous as well as vigilant—especially so on such a night. It therefore behoved him to advance with extreme caution. Creeping from mound to rock, and bush to knoll, he reached a small clump of bushes, into which he entered for the purpose of resting a few minutes and considering well his future movements.

A thrill of excitement ran through his frame when he discovered that he was not alone in this thicket. A man sat there leaning against a tree as if asleep. The scout crouched and drew a revolver. A moment sufficed to show that his arrival had not been observed. No wonder, for his approach had been like that of a cat! He was now in great perplexity. The man was evidently not a sentinel of either belligerent—that was plain, but it was equally plain that he was armed. To shoot him would be impossible without putting the sentries of both sides on the alert. To pass him in so small a thicket, without attracting attention, would be difficult. To draw back would necessitate a long détour, involving loss of precious time and increase of risk. A thought occurred to him. Many a time had he hunted among these mountains, and well accustomed was he to glide with serpentine caution towards his game. He would stalk him! Petroff seldom thought twice in cases of emergency. He unbuckled his sword quietly and hung it on a branch, and leant his carbine against a tree, resolving to trust to his great personal strength alone, for he did not mean to sacrifice life if he could avoid it. In case of being driven to extremity, his knife and revolver would suffice.

Then, sinking down until he became lost among the deep shadows of bush and brake, he began the slow, laborious, and silent process of gliding towards his unconscious victim.

This was one of those ventures to which we have referred as being afoot on that foggy night. The other venture had some points of similarity to it, though the end in view was different.