As Stubbs stumbled along in the darkness, he cast furtive glances over his shoulder and peered intently into the bushes, first on one side and then on the other; and as he plodded on he mumbled continually to himself.

Came a sudden shrill cry from the left—­a wild screech that, for the moment, the lads were unable to identify.

Hal immediately called a halt and all stopped to listen.  It came again, a shrill, piercing cry; and with it Anthony Stubbs hurled himself violently upon the men ahead of him and dashed through the center of the troop.  Beside the two lads he stopped, panting.  He felt more secure there.

“What was that?” he cried in a shrill voice.

The lads did not reply, but still stood listening.  A third time the cry rang out from the woods.  Then Chester laughed aloud.

“It’s a cat!” he exclaimed.

“A cat!” echoed Stubbs.

“Yes, cats are plentiful in the war zone.  Necessity has taken the edge off their skin-deep docility, and many of them resemble hyenas more than the domestic pets they used to be.”

“Then there is nothing to fear,” said Stubbs, drawing a breath of relief.

“No,” replied Chester, “there is nothing to fear so long as we are many, but two or three of them would not hesitate to attack a single man.  In fact, they have done so before now.”

“What! pet cats attack a man?” exclaimed Stubbs.

“Yes, and from what I have heard, they are pretty tough customers.  I heard that one man, in an encounter with four of the animals, had one of his eyes scratched out and was otherwise badly clawed before he could shoot them.  Half starved, they are perfectly wild.”

Stubbs shuddered.

“Let’s get away from here, then,” he exclaimed.

At a command from Hal, the troop moved off again and Stubbs stuck closely between the two lads.

They had progressed perhaps half a mile further when Stubbs felt his hat suddenly lifted from his head, and at the same moment the sharp crack of a rifle shattered the stillness of the night.

With a shout of terror the war correspondent threw himself to the ground and, like an ostrich, seemed to try to bury his head in the hard road.

Hal turned quickly and, taking quick aim with his revolver, fired into the bushes, a little below the spot where the rifle had flashed fire.  A scream of pain rewarded this shot.

Without waiting to ascertain whether there was more than one of the enemy, Hal shouted a command, and the British cavalrymen poured a volley into the woods, aiming low and scattering their fire.  Loud guttural exclamations and shouts were the answer to the fusillade.

Immediately Hal shouted: 

“To the ground, men!  Down quick!”

He suited the action to the word, as did Chester, Captain Anderson and all of the troop.  They did not fall a moment too soon, for there now came from the bushes a scattering and withering volley that would have done terrible execution among the little troop of British, but for the fact that they were beneath the line of fire.