He reached the woods absolutely unchallenged. After a few yards
in its friendly shade, he dropped the thorny bundle and strode
swiftly toward his own camp. He had not gone a hundred yards
before a voice of French type cried "'Alt," and he was face to
face with a sentry whose musket was levelled at him.
A quick glance interchanged, and each gasped out the other's
name.
"Francois la Colle!"
"Rolf Kittering! Mon Dieu! I ought to shoot you, Rolf; I cannot,
I cannot! But run, run! I'll shoot over your head," and his
kindly eyes filled with tears.
Rolf needed no second hint; he ran like a deer, and the musket
ball rattled the branches above his shoulders.
In a few minutes other soldiers came running and from La Colle
they heard of the hostile spy in camp.
"I shoot; I t'ink maybe I not hit eem; maybe some brood dere? No,
dat netting."
There were both runners and trackers in camp. They were like
bloodhounds and they took up the trail of the fugitive. But Rolf
was playing his own game now; he was "Flying Kittering." A
crooked trail is hard to follow, and, going at the long stride
that had made his success, he left many a crook and turn.
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