Jack went back to the village in the darkness, going in and out among the houses and the gardens, expecting every moment to come upon some traces of the men and animals. The night was silent, save for the steady downpour of rain and the dull roar of the flooded river, he knew not how far beyond. Presently he heard splashing footsteps, then two men rushed towards him breathless—first Giles, then Plunket. "The French dragoons!" panted Giles. "Not our own men?" said Jack quickly. "No, sir. We heard hoofs, and ran up to the first house and waited; and then two vedettes came up and stopped at the wagon, and we heard the French lingo, sir." "Then we must make ourselves scarce. Have we time to reach the bridge?" But even as he spoke, the sound of galloping horses and rumbling wagons came from the other end of the village. "We must cut, my men. Follow me!" cried Jack. Running at full speed along the Villapando road, he did not draw breath until he reached the smithy where the tyre had been repaired. "We must wait here till we know what is happening," he said. As they stood by the dark forge, they heard the clash of steel and the shouts of officers from the village. "Soult’s men for a certainty," said Jack. "I wonder if our fellows are across the bridge." Soon after came a clatter and rumble as of wagons driven furiously, and then the thunder of horses’ hoofs. Crack! That was a musket-shot. Another, another, then a rapid succession of reports, muffled by distance, struck their ears. "They’re trying to drive our pickets in," said Jack. "Come, men, we must try to find our own lines, or we shall stand a poor chance of escaping with whole skins in the morning. All we can do is to cut across the country over there; no one will hear us through this noise. Come along!" Leaving the shelter of the smithy, he ran across the road into the field opposite. Great clods of earth clave to his boots, and it was heavy running; but, followed closely by the two men, he pounded on, listening for shots on his right, and moving obliquely to the left to avoid the skirmishers who, he guessed, had been thrown out by the French. As he ran he found the ground rising in a gradual ascent. The firing still continued in a desultory way, and Jack rejoiced that the night was so murky that he and his men would not, as they ascended the slope, present a mark to the enemy. They had run for nearly twenty minutes, and were panting for breath, when they were suddenly brought to a stop by hearing the click of a firelock directly in front of them, and, as they ducked their heads, a shot rang out, followed by the cry: "Who goes there?" "A friend—an officer of the 95th!" shouted Jack in answer. There was a murmur of astonishment. In the darkness several forms were heard rather than seen to advance, and in a few moments Jack and his men were hauled over a rough, semicircular embankment, where they found themselves among a picket of the 43rd.