fired at them point-blank, and the bullet whistled
between them. "Leave me. Give me my sabre," said Rickerl, in a
low voice.

"Then we'll both stay."

"Leave me! I'll not hang, I tell you."

"No."

The franc-tireurs were running towards them.

"They'll kill us both. Here they come!"

"You stood by me--" said Jack, in a faint voice.

Rickerl looked him in the eyes, hesitated, and cried, "I
surrender! Come on! Hurry, Jack--for your sister's sake!"

XX

SIR THORALD IS SILENT

It was a long run to the foot of the vineyard hill, where, on the
crest, deep hidden among the vines, three cannon clanged at
regular intervals, stroke following stroke, like the thundering
summons of a gigantic tocsin.

Behind them they saw the franc-tireurs for a moment, thrashing
waist-deep through the rank marsh weeds; then, as they plunged
into a wheat-field, the landscape disappeared, and all around the
yellow grain rustled, waving above their heads, dense, sun-heated,
suffocating.

Their shoes sank ankle-deep in the reddish-yellow soil; they
panted, wet with perspiration as they ran. Jack still clutched
Rickerl's sabre, and the tall corn, brushing the blade, fell
under the edge, keen as a scythe.

"I can go no farther," breathed Jack, at last. "Wait a moment,
Ricky."

The hot air in the depths of the wheat was stifling, and they
stretched their heads above the sea of golden grain, gasping like
fishes in a bowl.

"Perhaps I won't have to surrender you, after all," said Jack.
"Do you see that old straw-stack on the slope? If we could reach
the other slope--"

He held out his hand to gauge the exact direction, then bent
again and plodded towards it, Rickerl jogging in his footprints.

As they pressed on under the rustling canopy, the sound of the
cannon receded, for they were skirting the vineyard at the base
of the hill, bearing always towards the south. And now they came
to the edge of the long field, beyond which stretched another
patch of stubble. The straw-stack stood half-way up the slope.

"Here's your sabre," motioned Jack. He was exhausted and reeled
about in the stubble, but Rickerl passed one arm about him, and,
sabre clutched in the other hand, aided him to the straw-stack.

The fresh wind strengthened them both; the sweat cooled and dried
on their throbbing faces. They leaned against the stack,
breathing heavily, the breeze blowing their wet hair, the solemn
cannon-din thrilling their ears, stroke