On, on he dashed, now using his stirrups, now beating his horse with his hands.

It seemed as if he were making no progress, yet his horse's legs were moving so swiftly.

"They will get him," sighed the field-cornet, looking through his glasses.

"He has a chance," replied a burgher.

Seconds dragged wearily, the firing increased in volume, and the dust of the horse's heels mingled with that raised by the bullets.