He felt no fear, however: only a great impatience to have the spy begin,--rise, beckon, call to his fellows, fire his gun, hit or miss.
This longing, or a flash of anger, or the rice-brandy working so nimbly in his wits, gave him both impulse and plan.
"Don't move," he whispered; "wait here." And wriggling backward, inch by inch, feet foremost among the crowded bellies of the jars, he gained the further darkness.

So far as sight would carry, the head stirred no more than if it had been a cannon-ball planted there on the verge, against the rosy cloud.

From crawling, Rudolph rose to hands and knees, and silently in the dust began to creep on a long circuit.

Once, through a rift in smoke, he saw a band of yellow musketeers, who crouched behind some ragged earthwork or broken wall, loading and firing without pause or care, chattering like outraged monkeys, and all too busy to spare a glance behind.

Their heads bobbed up and down in queer scarlet turbans or scarfs, like the flannel nightcaps of so many diabolic invalids.
Passing them unseen, he crept back toward his hollow.