he sergeant the two men looked at
each other. Without saying anything more, the officer glanced about
the hut. 'That will do, sergeant.--Good-night.'

'Good-night, sir,' answered Durwent.

The officer had hardly reached the door, where the sergeant had
preceded him with the light, when he turned back impulsively and put
out his hand. 'I suppose this sort of thing is necessary,' he said
hoarsely; 'but it's a damned rotten affair altogether.'

They clasped hands; and turning on his heel, the officer left the hut.

'Take every precaution, sergeant,' Dick heard him say; 'and send a
runner to the chaplain with my compliments. Tell him he must not leave
the prisoner.'

'Very good, sir.'

Silence again--and the crunching of the sentries' heels on the sparsely
sprinkled gravel. The ordeal was becoming unbearable. Dick feared the
passing of the minutes which would bring back the chaplain, and yet
every minute seemed an eternity. The conflict ravaged his very soul.
Was he to take the chance offered him by the strangest trick of
Destiny, or remain and die like a rat caught in a trap?

'Mas'r Dick.'

The door was quietly opened. The old groom's hand fell on his arm and
drew him firmly outwards. He tried to pull back, but with unexpected
strength the older man exerted pressure, until Dick found himself
outside.

It was so dark that he could not see a yard ahead of him as Mathews,
retaining his grip on his companion's arm, led him towards the road.
They were nearly clear of the field, when the groom stopped abruptly,
and they lay flat on the ground. It was the orderly officer and the
sergeant returning from the inspection of a hut some distance off.

'Sentry.' The officer had paused opposite the hut where the prisoner
had been.

'Yes, sir,' came the answer from the soldier still on guard at the
other door.

'Has the chaplain returned?'

'Not yet, sir.'

With an impatient exclamation, the officer went on towards the village;
and gaining their feet, the two men reached the road.

'There's a path alongside, sir,' whispered Mathews, 'and you and me is
goin' to put as much terry-firmy atwixt this village and us as our four
legs can do. Now, sir, we're off!'

With lowered heads, they broke into a run. Stumbling over unseen
stones, lacerating their hands and faces against bushes which over-hung
the path, they ran on into the dark. Once a staff car passed them, and
they huddled in a ditch; but it was only