The mist of early evening had settled over the river and wiped away every vestige of the army, save the flaring lights of the camp-kitchens and the white lamps of the motors; but the creaking of wheels, the pounding of engines, and the regular tramp of countless feet told that the advance had not slackened for an instant. On the uplands there was still a little light, and Stewart and his companion picked their way cautiously down through a belt of woodland, across a rough field, and over a wall, beyond which they found an uneven path, made evidently by a vanished herd as it went back and forth to its pasture. They advanced slowly and silently, every sense on the alert, but seemingly no pickets had been posted on this side, from which there was no reason to fear an attack, and they were soon down amid the mist, at the edge of the encampment. Here, however, there were sentries--a close line of them; the fugitives could see them dimly outlined against the fires, and could hear their occasional interchange of challenges. "It is impossible to get through here," whispered the girl. "Let us go on until we are below the bridge. Perhaps we shall find a gap there." So, hand in hand lest they become separated in the darkness, they worked their way cautiously downstream, just out of sight of the line of sentries. "Wait!" whispered Stewart, suddenly. "What is that ahead?" Something tall and black and vaguely menacing loomed above them into the night. "The church tower!" breathed the girl, after a moment. "See--there are ruins all about it--it is the village they burned." They hesitated. Should they enter it, or try to go around? There was something sinister and threatening about these roofless, blackened walls which had once been homes; but to go around meant climbing cliffs, meant breathless scrambling--above all, meant loss of time. "We must risk it," said the girl, at last. "We can come back if the place is guarded." Their hands instinctively tightened their clasp as they stole forward into the shadow of the houses, along what had once been a street, but was now littered and blocked with fallen walls and débris of every kind, some of it still smouldering. Everywhere there was the stench of half-burned wood, and another stench, more penetrating, more nauseating. Stewart was staring uneasily about him, telling himself that that stench could not possibly be what it seemed, when his companion's hand squeezed his and dragged him quickly aside against a wall. "Down, down!" she breathed, and they cowered together behind a mass of fallen masonry. Then Stewart peered out, cautiously. Yes, there was someone coming. Far down the street ahead of them a tiny light flashed, disappeared, flashed again, and disappeared. Crowding close together, they buried themselves deeper in the ruins and waited.