At last we reached the gloomy glade where, as Francis had told us, according to popular belief, the wraith of Charlemagne was still seen on the night of St. Hubert’s Day galloping along with his ghostly followers of the chase.  The rustling of leaves caught our ears; instantly we all lay prone behind a bank.

A group of men came swinging along the glade.  One of them was singing an ancient German soldier song: 

“Die Voeglein im Walde
Sie singen so schoen
In der Heimat, in der Heimat,
Da gibt’s ein Wiederseh’n.”

“The relief patrol!” I whispered to Francis, as soon as they were past.

“The other lot they relieve will be back this way in a minute.  We must get across quickly.”  My brother stood erect, and tiptoed swiftly across Charlemagne’s Ride, and we followed.

We must have crawled for an hour before we came to the ravine.  It was a deep, narrow ditch with steep sides, full of undergrowth and brambles.  Now we could hear distinctly the voices of men all around us, as it seemed, and to right and to left and in front we caught at intervals glimpses of red flames through the trees.  We could only proceed at a snail’s pace lest the continual rustle of our footsteps should betray us.  So each advanced a few paces in turn; then we all paused, and then the next one went forward.  We could no longer crawl; the undergrowth was too thick for that; we had to go forward bent double.

We had progressed like this for fully half an hour when Francis, who was in front as usual, beckoned us to lie down.  We all lay motionless among the brambles.

Then a voice somewhere above us said in German: 

“And I’ll have a man at the plank here, sergeant:  he can watch the ravine.”

Another voice answered: 

“Very good, Herr Leutnant, but in that case the patrols to right and left need not cross the plank each time; they can turn when they come to the ravine guard.”

The voices died away in a murmur.  I craned my neck aloft.  It was so dark, I could see nothing save the fretwork of branches against the night sky.  I whispered to Francis, who was just in front of me: 

“Unless we make a dash for it now that man will hear us rustling along!”

Francis held up a finger.  I heard a heavy footstep along the bank above us.

“Too late!” my brother whispered back.  “Do you hear the patrols?”

Footsteps crashing through the undergrowth resounded on the right and left.

“Cold work!” said a voice.

“Bitter!” came the answer, just above our heads.

“Seen anything?”

“Nothing!”

The rustling began again on the right, and died away.

“They’re closing in on the left!” Another voice this time.

“Heard anything, you?” from the voice above us.

“Not a thing!”

The rustling broke out once more on the left, and gradually became lost in the distance.