"Riding up this very hill where we are sitting! I saw them—six of them on their horses!"
"They must be French!"
"No, Bosches! Uhlans!"
"Did they see you?"
"No."
Along the upper retaining wall of the vineyard a line of low bushes grew in patches, left there, no doubt, so that the roots might make firmer the steep bank of earth and dry-laid stone.
Warner rose, and, stooping low, ran toward this thatch of cover, followed by Asticot.
Under the bushes they crept, stretched themselves flat, and lay listening.
They had not long to wait; straight through the rows of vines toward the crest of the hill rode an Uhlan, walking his big, hard-breathing horse to the very verge of the northern slope.
His lance, with pennon furled, slanted low from the arm loop; he sat his high saddle like a statue, and looked out across the valley toward the burning town beyond.