Up rode a patrol of lancers. Dismounting, and leaving their horses in charge of one-third of their number, the men advanced. The officer in charge took in the situation at a glance, for the twelve empty revolver cartridges on the ground told their own tale. "You had better proceed; enough time has already been wasted," he said, when he learnt the mission of the dispatch-riders. "We will attend to these." "That's a nasty knock," observed Rollo ruefully, as they hurried back to their motor-cycles. "H'm, yes," admitted his companion reluctantly. "Perhaps the chap was a bit nettled because his men didn't bag the Taube." But as they rode past the scene of their exploit the Captain called his men to attention--a tribute to the resource and daring of the British lads. Already the Belgian cavalrymen had shown signs of their humanity, for by means of their lances two stretchers had been improvised, and the wounded aviators were on the way to one of the hospitals in the beleaguered city. CHAPTER VIII In British Uniforms Shells were intermittently dropping upon the houses and in the streets as Kenneth and Rollo entered the apparently deserted city of Liége. The majority of the inhabitants, their numbers augmented by hundreds of terrified refugees from the surrounding villages, had taken refuge in cellars, while crowds, under the mistaken belief in the immunity of the churches from shell-fire, had sought doubtful shelter in the sacred edifices. Others, again, fearful at the threat of von Emmich to begin a general bombardment upon the city unless the forts surrendered--a threat that the gallant General Leman treated with contempt--were boarding the last trains to leave Liége. The day was excessively hot and close. The wind that had blown strongly during the preceding night had dropped. Several of the houses had taken fire, and the pungent smell of smoke filled the air. Frequently, before the dispatch-riders reached their destination, they were compelled to slacken pace, owing to the clouds of smoke that drifted slowly across the almost deserted streets. They found the commandant, with several of his staff, calmly engaged in his work, and heedless of the fact that several shells had already burst in front of the Palace of Justice in which he had taken up his quarters. Commandant Fleurus was a short, stocky man of about fifty, and rather inclined to corpulence. His head was as bald as an egg, with the exception of a ring of jet-black hair like a monkish tonsure. His eyes were small, resembling black beads, and rapid in their movements. He was writing when Kenneth was shown in. Without moving his head, which was slightly inclined, he fixed the dispatch-rider with his piercing stare. "Message, sir, from Major le Tourneur." The commandant took the letter and, with a swift movement, tore open the flap of the envelope. "This is marked 7.15 a.m.!" he exclaimed. "It's now a quarter to nine. Why this delay?"