His clothing was thoroughly dry at last, and he put it on
again. Clad anew he was tempted to seek escape at once, but the sound of
a footstep caused him to lie down in the shelter of the grass again.
His ear was now against the earth and the footsteps were much more
distinct. He was sure that they were made by a horse, and he believed
that a Uhlan was riding near. He remembered how long and sharp their
lances were, and he was grateful that the grass was so thick and tall.
He longed for the automatic revolver that had been such a trusty friend,
but the Germans had taken it long since, and he was wholly unarmed.
He was afraid to raise his head high enough to see the horseman, lest he
be seen, but the footsteps, as if fate had a grudge against him, were
coming nearer. His blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance,
or the power that directed the universe. It was really a grim joke that,
after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a Uhlan should
pick him up, so to speak, on the point of his lance.
He pressed hard against the earth. He would have pressed himself into it
if he could, and imagination, the deceiver, made him think that he was
doing so. The temptation to raise his head above the grass and look
became more violent, but will held him firm and he still lay flat.
Then he noticed that the hoofbeats wandered about in an irregular,
aimless fashion. Not even a scout hunting a good position for
observation would ride in such a way, and becoming more daring he
raised his head slowly, until he could peep over the grass stems.
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