Their one chance of escape, as they both realized fully, was to get back to their automobile before the Germans recovered themselves sufficiently to begin searching for those who had brought such swift and terrible disaster upon their enterprise. And so they made no effort to move quietly or secretly now. To do so would have meant delay and delay was what they could not afford. The distance seemed far greater than when they had first traversed it. It seemed that they would never pass the house which the Germans had used as a base. But finally they reached it. And as they did so a door burst open, and they saw a light within.
A man, with the cap of a German officer, though otherwise he wore civilian clothes, came rushing out, tugging at his pistol. He had heard them running. By some bad chance, then, there had been a man—a German—left in the inn!
"Stop!" he cried, furiously.
But they kept on running. He could not see them, dazzled as he was by coming from the lighted house into the deep darkness of the road. But he was in front of them, and they slowed up, instinctively, though they still ran. And then they came into the light of the door. He started back.
"Kinder!" he cried. "Children!"
It was the exclamation of the Uhlan who had stopped them in the afternoon. But now it was uttered in a vastly different tone. The German was beside himself with rage. Perhaps he had had some heavy share of responsibility for the safety of the Zeppelins. But whether that were so or not, he was plainly maddened by the sight of the boys. He could scarcely have understood how completely they were responsible, but the way they were running and the direction whence they came proved only too clearly that they had had some hand in it.
"Stop, Henri!" cried Frank, suddenly. "We can't get away. We surrender!"
They stopped. Frank was obeying the order Major Cooper had given him. Perhaps, had he been alone, he would have risked a further attempt to escape. But there was no doubt that the German meant to shoot, and he could not expose Henri to the risk.
They stopped full in the path of light that came from the open door of the inn. Behind them, in the road, voices were raised. It was plain that their wires had been followed, and that others were in pursuit. And, after all, Frank felt they could afford to grin at being made prisoners now. They had accomplished a great feat. Even if they were caught, that was to their credit.
And then suddenly he gave a cry of horror. Henri was a little ahead of him for he had not been able to stop as abruptly as Frank. And the German officer, too furious, perhaps, to think of what he was doing, raised his pistol and fired point-blank at the French boy! He fired—but there came from his pistol not a sharp report, but only the dull click as the hammer fell. Twice more he pulled the trigger. But something was wrong. He had made a fatal error—his revolver was unloaded.
But it was only by the luckiest of accidents that Henri was still alive. Frank had seen the murderous attempt, and now rage mastered him for the moment.
"You coward!" he shrieked. He flung himself at the German officer, who was trying frantically to get at his cartridges. So sudden was the attack that he was taken utterly by surprise. Before he could defend himself, Frank was wrenching his arm. A moment more, and the German officer squealed like a frightened pig, for Frank had succeeded in getting a hammer lock on him. He pulled at the revolver with his other hand, and at last the German, to escape a broken arm, had to loosen his grip. Even a weakling can cripple the strongest man if he once gets that hold. And Frank, in his rage at the cowardly thing he had seen, was almost a match for the full grown man in any case.
As soon as he got the revolver he let go of the German's arm. But before the officer could move, Frank had clubbed the pistol and struck him sharply on the head. He went down like a log.
"Run, Henri, run!" he cried. "They're coming up behind us! Run for the car!"
Behind them, indeed, the footsteps of running men were plainly to be heard. A shot rang out, but both boys had turned instinctively to the side of the road and were running low in the ditch beside the highway. They could not be seen, and the firing ceased. It seemed that most of the men were unarmed, or carried revolvers at the most. Had there been rifles behind them, they would have had no chance. But as it was, they reached their car and leaped in. Henri threw the switch of the electric starter, the motor leaped into throbbing life, and they were off.
Behind them more shots were fired, but the aim was wild. And they sped away, at fifty miles an hour, pursued only by a few vain revolver bullets, and by a chorus of shouts and yells of rage and execration.
"The coward!" stormed Frank. He had never been so angry in his life. "He might have killed you, Harry! And just because he was in a rage over what had happened to the airships! He didn't even know that you'd had anything to do with it—not positively! And we'd already surrendered."
Henri laughed—and he meant the laugh. It was not affectation. He had faced his danger in the true spirit of the Frenchman, who is as brave in action as any man in the world.
"Eh, well!" he said. "He did not shoot me, so what does it matter? That was a fine crack on the head you gave him! He will remember us, I think, next time he sees us."
Frank shuddered a little.
"I hope not!" he said. "Or, that if he does, he will be a prisoner himself, and won't be able to try to get even."
Frank remembered the look of sheer devilish rage in the eyes of the German. It was not pleasant to think that they might meet again.
"If it is to be, it will be," said Henri. "I bear him no grudge! He had cause to be angry—ma foi, yes! The Kaiser will not say pretty things when he hears of what we did to-night, Francois!"
"No!" Frank laughed. "I wonder where those airships were meant to go? Paris? They could have done terrible damage. Perhaps they were to attack the army—to lie behind its course, knowing that our aeroplanes would be scouting on the front. They might have made it harder than ever to retreat in good order. But I think they would have gone to Paris. I think that they would have been there before daylight."
"And now—pouf!" said Henri. "What is left of them? Not so much as would fill a barrel!"
Once all danger of pursuit was past, Henri had slowed down the speed of the car. Both scouts were thoroughly tired out by this time. They had had a strenuous day, and a night that merited the description of strenuous even more fully than the day. And now that danger seemed to lie behind them, and a clear road to safety in front, their weariness was realized fully for the first time.
They could hardly have escaped the Germans, had any lain between Abbeville and Amiens. But none were there, as it turned out. The road was clear and open before them, and the car rolled along smoothly.
"The firing seems to be moving now—moving to the southeast," said Henri, once.
"I think our left wing is being drawn in a little. That will tighten up the line. But it gives the Germans still more chance to get around the wing."
"We can bring up French troops to meet them, Frank. There is the garrison of Paris—nearly five hundred thousand men. They have not struck a blow yet. But if the Germans come too near, they will be brought up to the first line."
"I believe that's what the French plan is, Harry!" said Frank. "Yes, why not? To lead the Germans on and then take the risk of leaving Paris defended only by its forts, and try a new flanking movement of their own. Do you see? A new army, which could outflank the Germans while they thought they were outflanking us!"
The thought cheered them up wonderfully. It made it possible for them to bear the sight of Amiens, left without a single soldier of the republic, when they arrived.