"I think you're right," he answered. "Well, here's the plan. There's a deep ravine that runs clear across the frontier. I spent an hour in it. They've built a plank bridge across the top just this side of the line, and the patrol comes to the ravine about every three minutes. It is practically impossible to get out of sight and sound along that ravine in three minutes, but ..."
"Unless we could drar the patrol's attention away!" said Sapper Maggs.
But Francis ignored the interruption.
"... We can at least try it. Come on, we must be starting! Thank God, there's no moon; it's as dark as the devil outside!"
We roused up Monica and groped our way out of the cave into the black and dripping forest. Somewhere in the distance a faint glare reddened the sky. From time to time I thought I heard a shout, but it sounded far away.
We crawled stealthily forward, Francis in front, then Monica, Maggs and I last. In a few minutes we were wet through, and our hands, blue and dead with cold, were scratched and torn. Our progress was interminably slow. Every few yards Francis raised his hand and we stopped.
At last we reached the gloomy glade where, as Francis had told us, according to popular belief, the wraith of Charlemagne was still seen on the night of St. Hubert's Day galloping along with his ghostly followers of the chase. The rustling of leaves caught our ears; instantly we all lay prone behind a bank.
A group of men came swinging along the glade. One of them was singing an ancient German soldier song:
"Die Vöglein im Walde Sie singen so schön In der Heimat, in der Heimat, Da gibt's ein Wiederseh'n."
"The relief patrol!" I whispered to Francis, as soon as they were past.