The morning was very cold, and the soldiers who were about were all wearing their military cloaks.

Malchus had pulled the irons as high up as he could possibly force them, and they did not show below his cloak.
Walking carelessly along they passed through the sentries, whose duties, now that morning had dawned, related only to discovering an enemy approaching the camp, the soldiers being now free to enter or leave as they pleased.
"It is of no use to go far," Malchus said; "the nearer we hide to the camp the better.

We are less likely to be looked for there than at a distance, and it is impossible for me to travel at any speed until I get rid of these heavy irons.

As soon as we get over that little brow ahead we shall be out of sight of the sentries, and will take to the first hiding place we see." The little rise was but a short distance from camp, the country beyond was open but was covered with low brushwood.

As soon as they were over the brow and were assured that none of those who had left the camp before them were in sight, they plunged into the brushwood, and, making their way on their hands and knees for a few hundred yards, lay down in the midst of it.
"They are not likely to search on this side of the camp," Malchus said.
"They will not know at what hour I escaped, and will naturally suppose that I started at once to regain our camp.