"I'll go a little nearer," he whispered. "You stay here. They don't seem to be moving." "I'll come too," whispered Kenneth in reply. "No, you don't. One might escape notice where two might not. I'll be very cautious." Kenneth remained. He could just discern the form of his chum as he slowly and carefully approached the line of mysterious objects. Presently he saw Rollo regain his feet and walk towards him. "It's all right," announced Harrington. "They are a row of alders." His companion arose, slowly and stiffly. He had to swing his arms vigorously for some minutes to warm his chilled body. "Let's get on," he said. "Getting on" was not an easy matter, for upon arriving at the row of trees the lads found that they lined the bank of a sluggish stream, too broad to leap across and too deep to wade. Already thin ice had formed upon its surface. Swimming under these conditions might be performed, but the undertaking required a lot of pluck on a night like this. Furthermore, there was the after-effect to take into consideration. "Now, what's to be done?" asked Kenneth. For once, at least, he realized that his impetuosity failed him, and that he must rely upon the calmer, deliberate, and perhaps over-cautious counsels of his chum. "Cross dry-shod," replied Rollo. "We must follow the bank up-stream until we find a means of crossing. Not a recognized bridge--that would almost to a certainty be guarded--but a plank thrown across for the use of some farmer. It's no use wasting time here." He stopped suddenly. From behind the shelter of one of the trees a tall, dark figure advanced swiftly and unhesitatingly. The fugitives' first impulse was to take to their heels, but before they had recovered sufficiently from their surprise a voice exclaimed: "What cheer, mates! What might you be doing here?" Arrested by the sound of an unmistakable English voice, the lads held their ground. Kenneth, with studious politeness, said: "We are pleased to make your acquaintance," and then felt inclined, in spite of his physical discomforts, to laugh at the absurdity of his remark. The man held out his hand. Kenneth grabbed it cordially. As he did so he noticed that the stranger was dressed almost in rags. He wore a battered slouch hat, a cloak that reached to his knees, and trousers so short in the leg that there was a gap between the foot of them and his grey socks. On his feet he wore a pair of sabots. "What might you be doing here?" he repeated. "Trying to regain our regiment," replied Rollo. "Same here. What's yours?" "The 9th Regiment of the Line." The man glanced suspiciously at his informant. "Never heard of it," he declared. "Mine's the Northumberland Fusiliers--'Quo Fata Vocant' is our motto, and strikes me Fate has led me a pretty dance. The 9th Regiment of the Line?" "Of the Belgian army," explained Kenneth, for the man's declaration sounded like a challenge. "We're British volunteer dispatch-riders--corporals."