A warning "s--sh" from the corporal brought them back to the grim
business still before them, and they crept along behind him as he wormed
his way through the breach.

Camp utensils were scattered upon the ground and indicated that a field
kitchen had stood there recently, an impression that became a conviction
when Bart burned his hand by bringing it down upon some smoldering
embers covered with ashes.

He bit his tongue trying to repress the exclamation that leaped to his
lips, but he succeeded, although his fingers were badly blistered.

Little by little, with many pauses, they reached the edge of a small
section of the first trench. Nothing hindered them, no one challenged
them. In fact their progress was so free from obstacles that the
corporal, a wily veteran who had had long experience among the savage
Moros while serving in the Philippines, became uneasy, fearing an
ambush.

Still, that was one of the chances that the party had to take, and there
was nothing to do but to keep on. But they redoubled their precautions,
every sense tingling with watchfulness against a sudden surprise.

They worked their way along the trench until they reached the entrance.
No sound came from the interior. They listened for the murmur of
conversation, the scraping of feet, the clank of a weapon. They looked
down its length for a ray of light. Not a gleam or a sound rewarded
them.