Souchez had field-glasses slung around his neck. Renoux took them, gazed at the receding boat, set his teeth hard.
“Ferez!” he growled.
“What!” exclaimed Westmore, turning a violent red.
“The man steering is Ferez Bey.” Renoux handed the binoculars to Westmore with a shrug.
Barres, bending double, had gone out into the swale. A thicket of cat-tails screened him and he advanced very carefully, keeping his eyes on the green-jacketed 402 men whose heads, shoulders and rifles were visible above the swampy growth beyond.
Suddenly Renoux, who was watching him in bitter silence, saw him turn and beckon violently.
“Quick!” he said in a low, eager voice. “He may have found a ditch to shelter us!”
Renoux was correct in his surmise: Barres stood with drawn pistol, awaiting them in a muddy ditch which ran through the reeds diagonally across the marsh. It was shin-deep in water.
“We could make a pretty good stand in a ditch like this, couldn’t we?” he demanded excitedly.
“You bet we can!” replied Renoux, jumping down beside him, followed by Westmore, Alost and Souchez in turn.