I moved cautiously, crouching in the short grass, observing the movements of the man, and dreading lest he had spied me out as I had him. Then he suddenly disappeared from view. I waited awhile; then, not seeing him, I began cautiously to move along the field parallel with the road, occasionally stopping to look and listen. At last, believing the course to be clear, I walked as fast as my feet could carry me, though still keenly observant with eyes and ears, of everything near me.
Again I heard a rustling sound near by which sent me crouching to the ground again. But, seeing and hearing nothing more, I went forward again, and again dropped to the ground to listen.
Then I heard a loud, hoarse whisper, which, but for the words distinctly enunciated, I should have mistaken for the wind in the tree tops: “Stark! Stark! David!” I did not trust my senses, for my imagination had deceived me more than once in my life when under excitement, and might again be deluding me.
From the shadows again came the whisper—“Dave! Dave! Dave! Is it you?”
I sprang up, and there stood erect a form I could mistake for no one else than my comrade, Gordon.
In another moment we had clasped hands.
So deep had been my emotions of fear and hope during that short interval of suspense, that I could only thank God for that which had seemed to be peril, was the reverse.
“It won’t do to talk here,” he said; “let us get back into the field.”