In that he proved right. By the time he had covered a quarter of a mile he had gained a fifty-yard lead on his pursuers. But he had had no choice in the direction he should take and saw that he was heading almost directly for the sea. To continue on his course was to risk that when he reached the beach they would spread out and hem him in against the water. With his previous night's experience still fresh in mind, he would have thought twice before seeking refuge in the sea even had it been fully dark. As it was still daylight, it would have been completely futile to do so.
His only alternative was to alter direction slightly until, by making a wide curve, he would be running parallel with the shore. That, he feared might cost him much of his lead, but after covering another two hundred yards another swift look over his shoulder filled him with elation. His pursuers were obviously tiring. Two of them had dropped out and the others, staggering now as they ran, were still a good hundred yards behind him.
By then he had come to the end of the dunes, where they sloped down to a wide stretch of foreshore. The sand was firmer there so he took to it and, although he was tiring, it enabled him to increase his pace slightly. Some distance ahead of him, a little way inland, he could now see a farmhouse among a group of stunted trees. The sight of them lent him new strength and determination. If only he could reach them well ahead of his pursuers he might find a place to hide there until darkness had fallen.
For some time past the soldiers had ceased their shouting, but now it suddenly broke out again. Looking back to see the reason, Roger gave a gasp of dismay. A quarter of a mile off, trotting along the shore behind him, were three horsemen, and they were in uniform. The men in pursuit of him were pointing at him and yelling to them:
' A spy! An English spy. He has escaped from us! He killed our Sergeant and got away! After him! After him! Ride him down! '
Even as Roger grasped this new peril that had come upon him like a bolt from the blue, the three riders put spurs to their horses and urged them into a gallop. The only thing he could do was to turn away from the shore and head up into the sand-dunes, in the wild hope that the loose sand and sudden dips there would make it more difficult for the horsemen to come up with him.
By this time he had run over a mile and most of it had been across soft sand that made the going very heavy. His face was dripping with sweat, his leg muscles were aching abominably and he was catching his breath in sobbing gasps.
To be captured and dragged back to death when he had escaped it four times within the past twenty-four hours, and only a moment since had been in a fair way to regain his freedom, seemed so utterly unjust a fate that he rebelled against it. There was nowhere he could hide, he knew that he had no possible hope of out-distancing the horsemen; yet he staggered on, bent almost double as he charged the upward slopes and slithering wildly as he careered down into the valleys beyond them.
The chase lasted barely four minutes. The murmur of the horses' hooves behind him increased to a loud thudding. His foot caught in a tuft of coarse sand-grass. He stumbled and fell. As he rolled over and picked himself up he found himself facing the three horsemen. Their leader was an infantry officer wearing a shako, the two others were Hussars, with straps wound round their tall busbies. All three had drawn their swords and were waving them on high. It was evident that they meant to give no quarter to an English spy who had just killed a Sergeant and escaped.
In spite of the inescapable destruction with which Roger was now confronted, the instinct to cheat death until the very last moment was still strong in him. To turn and run further was utterly useless. Before he had taken another dozen paces they would cut him down from behind. But he could fling himself flat between two of the onrushing horses in the slender chance that he would escape both their hooves and the swords of their riders. At the pace they were going, if they overshot him that would give him a few more minutes before they could wheel and come at him again. What would he do then, or what could possibly occur to save him during those few fleeting minutes, he had not, as yet, the faintest idea.
Then, as the living torrent of snorting horses and yelling men came rushing upon him, he realized that his idea of possibly escaping them by throwing himself to the ground had been no better than a pipe-dream. Into his mind there flashed a memory of a military gymkhana which he had once attended. It had been on a sunny afternoon with officers in colourful uniforms and pretty women in sprigged muslin crowding the enclosure. On the programme one contest had been for mounted men to ride full tilt at a row of turnips stuck on low pegs. Leaning low from their saddles, they had picked the turnips up, one after another, on the points of their swords. If he did throw himself flat it would only be to have a sword thrust through his back.
Three horsemen were now within ten feet of him, the officer in the centre and leading by half a length. With distended eyes, Roger stared at him. He was a small man, neat and elegant, but with a fierce expression compressing his lips and thrusting out his determined jaw. Suddenly, Roger's mouth opened and he yelled:
'Lannes! Lannes! Do you not know me? I am Roje Breuc! *
From frowning slits, due to concentration, the officer's eyes sprang wide open. His sword was already descending to cleave Roger's skull. With a flick of the wrist, of which only an expert swordsman could have been capable, he diverted the stroke, so that the blade curved away into a horizontal position and became extended at a right-angle to his body. Thus it not only passed a good six inches above Roger's head but prevented the Hussar on his other side from getting a clear cut at him.
The three horses thundered by. Roger, almost hysterical with relief, remained where he stood, still choking for breath. In the next valley the horsemen checked their foam-flecked mounts, brought them round in a wide semi-circle and came cantering back to him.
' Lannes! * Roger croaked, lurching forward and grasping the bridle of the officer's horse to support himself. ' Lannes, by all that's holy! Never . . . never was the arrival of any friend more opportune.'
'Ten thousand devils! ' exclaimed the officer. ' When you shouted I could scarce believe it. But you are . . . you are Colonel Breuc.'
Roger gave an unsteady laugh. 'Indeed I am; but I've been within an ace of losing my life because till now I could not prove it.'
' Sang Dieu! What luck then that I chanced to be riding by. Those infantrymen who were giving chase to you yelled to me that you were an English spy and had just got away after killing their Sergeant. It sounds like Beelzebub's own mess that you've been in.'
' It was; and I did kill the brute. Had I not I'd be dead myself by now. As for my being an Englishman, a pack of fools jumped to the conclusion that I was one simply because I was caught last night landing clandestinely on the coast below Boulogne. But I'll give you full details later of the ghastly time I have been through.'
At that moment, still puffing from their exertions, three soldiers of the firing squad appeared over a nearby ridge. With bayonets levelled and shouts of triumph at the sight of Roger, they ran down the slope to surround him.
'Halt! ' snapped out Lannes. 'Put up your weapons. Ground arms! '
As Lannes was a Brigadier-General, they pulled up and stood to attention after only a moment of surprised hesitation. Then one of them panted out: