en, midway between Oudenarde and Alost,
that the fugitives met the Death's-Head Hussars. And with that
ill-omened crew came the great adventure.

CHAPTER XII

AT THE GATES OF DEATH

Had Dalroy followed his own plans, supported as they were by the
well-meant advice tendered by the farmer of the Meuse valley, he might
have led his companions through the final barrier without incurring any
risk at all comparable with the hair's-breadth escapes of Vise,
Argenteau, Andenne, and Huy.

But the weather broke. Rain fell in torrents, and Irene's presence was a
real deterrent to spending a night in a ditch or lurking in the depths
of a wood till dawn. Maertz, too, jubilant in the certainty that the
Belgian outposts were hardly six miles distant, advocated the bold
policy of a daylight march. Still, there was no excuse for Dalroy, who
knew that patrols in an enemy's country are content to stand fast by
night, and scout during the day. Unluckily, Irene was eager as their
Belgian friend to rush the last stage. She was infected by the prevalent
spirit of the people. Throughout the whole of September these valiant
folk in the real Flanders held the Germans rather cheap. They did not
realise that outpost affairs are not battles--that a cavalry screen, as
its very name implies, is actually of more value in cloaking movements
of armies in rear than in reconnoitring.

Be that as it may, in the late afternoon of 5th September the three were
hurrying past some lounging troopers who had taken shelter from the
pouring rain in the spacious doorway of a ruined barn, when one man
called to them, "Hi! where are you off to?"

They pretended not to hear, whereupon a bullet passed through Dalroy's
smock between arm and ribs.

It was useless to think of bolting from cavalry. They turned at once,
hoping that a bold front might serve. This occurred a mile or more from
Oombergen. Maertz had "an aunt" in Oosterzeele, the next village, and
said so.

"If she's anything like you, you're welcome to her; but let's have a
look at your cousin," grinned the German, striding forward, carbine in
hand, and grasping Irene by the shoulder.

"You stop here, _Fraeulein_--or, is it _Frau_?" he said, with a vilely
suggestive leer. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter. If one of these pig-heads
is your husband we can soon make you a widow."

Now to Irene every German soldier was a boor, with a boor's vices and
limitations. The man, a corporal, spoke and acted co