He could hope only to travel by night, and he
guessed that this night must be nearly spent. Stooping, he moved
cautiously away from the river. Through the shadows of the wood he
made his way for perhaps a hundred yards when he was suddenly
confronted by a figure that stepped from behind the bole of a tree.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came the challenge.
Barney's heart stood still. With all his care he had run straight
into the arms of an Austrian sentry. To run would be to be shot. To
advance would mean capture, and that too would mean death.
For the barest fraction of an instant he hesitated, and then his
quick American wits came to his aid. Feigning intoxication he
answered the challenge in dubious Austrian that he hoped his maudlin
tongue would excuse.
"Friend," he answered thickly. "Friend with a drink--have one?"
And he staggered drunkenly forward, banking all upon the credulity
and thirst of the soldier who confronted him with fixed bayonet.
That the sentry was both credulous and thirsty was evidenced by the
fact that he let Barney come within reach of his gun. Instantly the
drunken Austrian was transformed into a very sober and active engine
of destruction. Seizing the barrel of the piece Barney jerked it to
one side and toward him, and at the same instant he leaped for the
throat of the sentry.
So quickly was this accomplished that the Austrian had time only for
a single cry, and that was choked in his windpipe by the steel
fingers of the American.
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