A plain stretched in front of them, but was invisible; they could distinguish the trees, which seemed like stationary smoke below, and above were the scurrying clouds. M. Ulrich cautiously began the descent, listening eagerly. An owl flew by. They had to make their way a short distance through a prickly undergrowth which clung to their clothes.
Suddenly a voice in the forest called:
"Halt!"
M. Ulrich stooped, his hand on Jean's shoulder.
"Don't move," he whispered quickly. "I'll call them off, by turning towards the Minières. As soon as they follow me, get up, run off, cross the road and then the little coppice—it's a straight line in front of you. Adieu."
He rose up, took a few steps cautiously, and then made off quickly through the woods.
"Halt! Halt!"
A report rang out, and as the noise died away under the branches M. Ulrich's voice, already some distance off, called:
"Missed."
At the same moment Jean Oberlé made a rush for the frontier. Head lowered, seeing nothing, his elbows squared, his chest lashed by the branches, he ran with all his might. He passed within a few inches of a man lying in ambush. The branches were pushed aside, a whistle was blown, Jean redoubled his efforts. He reached the road unawares; another report rang out on the edge of the wood. Jean rolled over on the edge of the copse. Cries arose: