We had no food, and Maggs, who had eaten
the last of his provisions twenty-four hours before--the British soldier
is a bad hoarder--soon consumed the last of my cigarettes. It was past
ten o'clock when I heard a step outside. The next moment Francis came
in, white and breathless.

"They're beating the forest for us," he panted. "The place is full of
men. I had to crawl the whole way there and back, and I'm soaked to the
skin."

I pointed to Monica, who was fast asleep, and he lowered his voice.

"Des," he said, "I've hoped as long as I dared, but now I believe the
game's up. They're beating the forest in a great circle, soldiers and
police and customs men. If we set out at once we can reach the frontier
before they get here, but what's the use of that ... every patrol is on
the look-out for us ... the forest seems ablaze with torches."

"We must try it, Francis," I said. "We haven't a dog's chance if we
stay here!"

"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 soldie