"The easiest for you is by Bergen-op-Zoom. You are less likely to be interrupted that way than by the Antwerp road; our forces are camped at Calmpthout on that road, and you might be delayed in passing through the lines, to say nothing of falling in with the French beyond." "Thanks and thanks again!" "You’ll have to ride hard," added Tettefall. "The duke’s at Thielen, twenty miles east of Lillo; and there’s no time to lose." "No, I will start at once." "And good luck go with you!" Harry was soon riding at a smart pace along the road to Bergen-op-Zoom, whence he made due south for Lillo, reaching that small fortified place about seven o’clock in the evening. To his intense disappointment he found that General van Santen was at the British head-quarters at Thielen. He had been absent all day, but was expected to return before night. Had it not been so late Harry would have started to meet him on the road, but he did not care to risk missing him. He waited impatiently; the general arrived soon after nine, and when he had heard Harry’s story he consented at once to write to Marlborough, mentioning that the bearer of the letter had earned some consideration by his excellent stratagem at Lindendaal, where the condemned man also had done good service. Armed with the letter, Harry set off at ten, hoping to cover the twenty miles to Thielen before the duke had retired to rest. Before starting, General van Santen warned him that parties of French horse were out observing the movements of the confederate army. Finding that he was not familiar with the road, the general sent one of his own orderlies with him, warmly wishing him success. The two riders struck across the fields and by narrow bridle paths almost due east, and passing through one or two ruined villages—among them Eckeren, the scene of the Dutch defeat on June 30th—came to the site of the French camp, vacated and burnt on the approach of Marlborough some ten days before. The air was murky, the sky dark, and Harry was glad of his companion. He was oppressed by the louring prospect of Sherebiah’s fate, and the heaviness of the night was not apt to lighten his care. They had ridden for about a third of the distance, and had just left the highway for a cross-road that saved a mile, when all at once, from behind a hedge, there came a sharp challenge in French. "Who goes there?" "A friend," said Harry, and, pulling up, walked his horse slowly forward. "Halt, and give the countersign!" said the voice peremptorily, and dimly, a few yards before him, Harry saw a horseman come into the road. "Now for a dash; keep close!" whispered Harry to the orderly.