I approved of this suggestion, and Watkins having found a rope, I armed Denny with the rifle, took from the wall a large, keen hunting-knife, opened the door, and stole out, accompanied by Hogvardt and Watkins, who carried their revolvers.  We reached the pen without interruption, tied our rope firmly round the horns of one of the dead beasts, and set to work to drag it along.  It was no child’s play, and our progress was very slow; but the carcass moved, and I gave a shout of encouragement as we got it down to the smoother ground of the road and hauled it along with a will.  Alas! that shout was a great indiscretion.  I had been too hasty in assuming that our enemy was quite gone.  We heard suddenly the rush of feet; shots whistled over our heads; we had but just time to drop the rope and turn round when Denny’s rifle rang out, and then—­somebody was at us!  I really do not know exactly how many there were.  I had two at me, but by great good luck I drove my big knife into one fellow’s arm at the first hazard, and I think that was enough for him.  In my other assailant I recognized Vlacho.  The fat innkeeper had got rid of his gun, and had a knife much like the one I carried myself.  I knew him more by his voice, as he cried fiercely, “Come on,” than by his appearance, for the darkness was thick now.  Parrying his fierce thrusts—­he was very active for so stout a man—­I called out to our people to fall back as quickly as they could, for I did not know but that we might be taken in the rear also.

But discipline is hard to maintain in such a force as mine.

“Bosh!” cried Denny’s voice.

“Mein Gott, no!” exclaimed Hogvardt.

Watkins said nothing, but for once in his life he also disobeyed me.

Well, if they would not do as I said, I must do as they did.  The line advanced—­the whole line, as at Waterloo.  We pressed them hard.  I heard a revolver fired and a cry follow.  Fat Vlacho slackened in his attack, wavered, halted, turned and ran.  A shout of triumph from Denny told me that the battle was going well there.  Fired with victory, I set myself for a chase.  But, alas! my pride was checked.  Before I had gone two yards I fell headlong over the body for which we had been fighting (as Greeks and Trojans fought for the body of Hector), and came to an abrupt stop, sprawling most ignominiously over the cow’s broad back.

“Stop! stop!” I cried.  “Wait a bit, Denny.  I’m down over this infernal cow!” It was an inglorious ending to the exploits of the evening.

Prudence, or my cry, stopped them.  The enemy were in full retreat; their steps pattered quick along the rocky road, and Denny observed in a tone of immense satisfaction: 

“I think that’s our trick, Charlie,”

“Are you hurt?” I asked, scrambling to my feet.

Watkins owned to a crack from the stock of a gun on his right shoulder; Hogvardt to a graze of a knife on the arm.  Denny was unhurt.  We had reason to suppose that we had left our mark on at least two of the enemy.  For so great a victory it was cheaply bought.