Darkness had fallen when he limped out of the cave and with a final glance around him descended the slope to ford the river. He was glad of this, for it increased his chances of escape if he should run into further trouble. By now his route was familiar to him and he had no fear that he would lose his way. His only preoccupation was his wounded leg which had begun to stiffen up in an ugly manner; but he calculated that it was good for an hour’s march. A stiff drink had made him feel much better, though he realized that sooner or later the effect of the spirits would induce sleepiness and he was most concerned about this. Suppose he fell asleep and let Porson pass him in the night — at dawn?
It was useless worrying, however, and he plodded on across the soft meadows with determination. There was a feeble glimmer of light from one room in the monastery and he heard the distant barking of a dog. Beyond the trees by the sawmill he heard the sounds of singing from the little tavern where the peasants were drinking their evening glass of plum brandy. He smiled as he crossed the ridge for the last time and entered the dark avenues of pines to feel the soft ferny floor of the hillside under his bare feet.
He arrived at the road after a journey full of falls and slips, due to his leg, and worked his way along the northern end under cover of the trees. When he reached a point almost opposite the white marker stone where Porson should stop by agreement, he climbed into the ditch and was delighted to find it still dry and full of tall ferns which afforded excellent cover. Here he must lie until the car came for him, and it was characteristic that having won his way so far he should begin to worry about the rendezvous. His sleepy mind began playing tricks with him, telling him that to-day was not Saturday but Friday. He buried his face in the deep grass and, despite himself, fell into a fitful slumber, lulled by the roaring of the water in the valley below him. He had had the presence of mind to slip the leather thong of his pistol round his wrist and to slip the safety catch.
Time passed and the moon rose. He was woken by the whistle of a train which rumbled through the cuttings opposite and disappeared with a succession of shrill grunts and squeaks into the heart of the mountain. It looked more than ever like a toy with its small lighted carriages, and fussing engine. In the silence that followed he could hear the voices of soldiers and platelayers on the railway-line opposite.
His leg had become stiff now, and to ease it he was forced to turn on his back and lie in a more relaxed position. The mosquitoes too were troublesome and Methuen felt the bumps rising on his face and neck from their sharp bites; but he was too far gone with sleep to care, and sinking his head back into the soft bank he fell now into a deep troubled sleep in which the vivid images of the last two days flickered and flashed as if across a cinema screen: Black Peter’s glazing eyes, the turning, tossing figures of men in gold coats falling into space, the mule-teams strung out along the mountain like a serpent, the smile on the face of the soldier with the carbine. Then, too, he saw himself picking Branko’s pocket, walking along the edge of the cliff, or running bent double among the bracken like a wounded hare. The whole insane jumble of events seemed to have become telescoped in his mind with those other scenes taken from his first days at the cave — the fish rising to his fly, the rain swishing down from the great bare mountains.…
It is possible that he would indeed have missed Porson, so deeply did he sleep, had it not been for a lucky chance; for it was already dawn when he was abruptly dragged from his stupor by the rumble of lorries as a convoy burst round the corner and passed the place where he was lying, the yellow headlamps lighting up the cliff-side and the road with their ghastly pale radiance.
He counted seven lorries, and he could dimly see that they were packed with troops and leather-men. They were heading in the southerly direction which must lead them to the nearest road-point from which to climb to the scene of the battle. Methuen breathed a prayer of gratitude as he came full awake, for dawn was fast breaking; and in the choking cloud of dust which followed their passage he rolled once more on to his stomach and settled himself in a position of watchfulness by the road, half-stifled by the dust and petrol fumes.
He had not long to wait. The dust settled slowly and the dawn-light crept along the sides of the hill opposite, scooping great pools of violet shadow in the sides of the mountains. He heard, thin and sweet in the chill morning air, the klaxon of the Mercedes crying down the gorge, and he could not supress an involuntary cry of joy. “Good old Porson,” he said over and over again, every muscle tense with expectation, as he waited for the car to appear around the bend.
A thousand yards away Porson himself was swearing volubly as he drove the old car around the curves of the road. He was in a bemused and shaky condition, having nearly been run down by the convoy of lorries a little further down the valley. In addition to this he had spent time mending a puncture, and had twice been stopped by troops at a road-block, and forced to show his papers. If Methuen was still alive, and if he had managed to reach the point of rendezvous, perhaps he (Porson) was arriving too late? Perhaps there were troops around the white milestone? If so what should he do? His teeth were chattering with cold and excitement as he gradually throttled down the car and slackened speed, while Blair kept a check on their escort through the back. This time they had kept the hood of the car raised and the side-curtains drawn.
They clattered round the last bend and into the cover of the trees when all of a sudden Porson gave a great yelp of surprise for a battered-looking scarecrow with bare feet suddenly plunged into the road by the white milestone, waving its arms. It limped grotesquely and seemed about to collapse under the wheels of the car. “He’s done it,” said Blair. But for a moment Porson could not believe it was Methuen, so wild and ragged did the figure seem. He pressed the brake and the car slowed down. “Good show!” shouted Methuen in a thin voice and clutching the handle of the door swung himself by a mighty effort into the back of the car, where Blair immediately threw a rug over him.
“My God,” said Porson in a shaky voice as he accelerated once more, “Methuen, are you all right?” but Methuen was pressing his cheek to the dusty floor carpet of the car and thinking that he had never felt so glad to hear English voices in all his life. So great was his relief that he was completely bereft of speech. He tried once or twice to say something but only a dull croak came out of his mouth. Perhaps it was sheer fatigue or the dust he had swallowed. But he became conscious now that he was hot, indeed that he had a high temperature.
He heard Porson say: “Just in time”, and then he heard the rumble of another convoy of lorries. The two young men were too busy to pay much attention to him for a moment or two. The car was fairly speeding along the road when Porson turned a pale face over his shoulder and said: “Blair, for heaven’s sake, see if he is dead?”
Once more Methuen tried to speak but could only utter a dull croak. Blair’s white face peered down at him and a hand touched his cheek. “No. He’s not dead. He’s smiling,” said Blair academically, and Porson made an impatient movement. “For goodness’ sake, Blair,” he said, “get into the back and see if he’s wounded.”