“Yes—­I heard it.  But what was he doing here?”

“That is yet to be found out,” was the reply, in a sharp, strained voice.  “This is Cartoner’s work.”

“I doubt it,” whispered Martin.  And yet in his heart he could scarcely doubt it at that moment.  Nothing was further from his recollection than the note he had given to Netty in the Saski Gardens ten hours ago.

“What does it mean?” he asked, with a sudden despair in his voice.  He had always been lucky and successful.

“It means,” answered the man who had never been either, “that the place is surrounded, of course.  They have got the arms, and we have failed—­this time.  Take the horses back towards the barracks—­and wait for me where the water is across the road.  I will go forward on foot and make sure.  If I do not return in twenty minutes it will mean that they have taken me.”

As he spoke he took off his white overcoat, which was all gray and bespattered with mud, and threw it across the saddle.  His working clothes were sombre and dirty.  He was almost invisible in the darkness.

“Wait a moment,” he said.  “I will get over the wall here.  Bring your horse against the wall.”

Martin did so, avoiding the body of the sentry, which lay stretched across the foot-path.  The wall was eighteen feet high.

“Stand in your stirrups,” said Kosmaroff, “and hold one arm up rigid against the wall.”

He was already standing on the broad back of the charger, steadying himself by a firm grip of Martin’s collar.  He climbed higher, standing on Martin’s shoulders, and steadying himself against the wall.

“Are you ready?  I am going to spring.”

He placed the middle of his foot in Martin’s up-stretched palm, gave a light spring and a scramble, and reached the summit of the wall.  Martin could perceive him for a moment against the sky.

“All right,” he whispered, and disappeared.

Martin had not returned many yards along the road they had come when he heard pattering steps in the mud behind him.  It was Kosmaroff, breathless.

“Quick!” he whispered.  “Quick!”

And he scrambled into the saddle while the horse was still moving.  He was, it must be remembered, a trained soldier.  He led the way at a gallop, stooping in the saddle to secure the swinging stirrups.  Martin had to use his spurs to bring his horse alongside.  Shoulder to shoulder they splashed on in the darkness.

“I went right in,” gasped Kosmaroff.  “The arms are gone.  The place is full of men.  There is a sotnia drawn up in the yard itself.  It is an ambuscade.  We have failed—­failed—­this time!”

“We must stop the carts, and then ride on and disperse the men,” said Martin.  “We may do it.  We may succeed.  It is a good night for such work.”

Kosmaroff gave a short, despairing laugh.

“Ah!” he said.  “You are full of hope—­you.”

“Yes—­I am full of hope—­still,” answered Martin.  He had more to lose than his companion.  But he had also less to gain.