A second shot was sent after him, but this time very wide of
its mark. Then, as it seemed, at his very feet a dozen black forms
rose out of the earth. He tripped over one and went floundering on
to his nose. As his hands touched the ground, a score of bright
sparks flew up and were extinguished. With a cry of pain he rolled
upon his back, and was at once pinned to the ground by a dozen firm
hands.
He had blundered full-tilt across the embers of a French camp-fire.
A lantern was lit and thrust close to his face. He blinked painfully
for a moment or two, and then perceived that he lay within a circle
of fierce, grey-coated soldiers, who were putting him a score of
questions in a tongue which he felt sure it would take him a year to
master.
He endeavoured to say so.
"Ar-r-rh!" exclaimed one of the soldiers, spitting contemptuously,
"_C'est un Anglais_."
"_Espion!_"
"_J'en reponds_." He gave an order, and in a trice Tristram's wrists
were strapped together with a handkerchief. Then he was heaved up on
his feet, and a couple of men took him, each by an arm. They were
about to march him off, when a voice hailed them, and up rode a
general officer, with two dragoons cantering behind him for escort.
"_Qu'y a-t-il, mes enfants?_" He had plainly been disturbed by the
noise of the firing.
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