"To hell with it!" retorted Mount, fiercely, and pushed me towards the rope.
"Let me alone!" I flashed out, backing towards the flag-pole.
"Oh, go to the devil your own way," growled Mount, but I saw he did not leave the rampart while I was lowering the flag and ripping it from the halyards.
Cresap came rushing up the scarp as I stuffed the flag into the breast of my hunting-shirt.
"Are you mad?" he cried. "Down the rope there, Cardigan! Follow him for your life, Jack Mount!"
And down I scrambled, followed by Mount and Cresap, and we all ran as though the Six Nations were at our heels.
In the dark we passed a rifleman who scampered on ahead to pilot us, and after ten minutes at top speed we joined the rear-guard and fell in with the major, panting.
"A slick trick you played," grunted Mount, "with that bloody British flag."
"It was mine, once," I retorted, hotly.
"Oh, you would blow us all up for it, eh?" asked the big fellow, pettishly. "Well, you be damned, and your flag, too!"