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. In spite of smoke,
he had gauged and held his circle nicely, for straight ahead lay the
man's legs. Taken thus in the rear, he still lay prone, staring down the
slope, inactive; yet legs, body, and the bent arm that clutched a musket
beside him in the grass, were stiff with some curious excitement.
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