Another blast, nearer this time.

Bettina fancies she hears the rolling of the gun-carriages.

She makes a last effort, there is the terrace, she is there just in time.
Twenty yards off she perceived the white horses of the trumpeters, and along the road caught glimpses, vaguely appearing through the fog, of the long line of guns and wagons.
She sheltered herself under one of the old limes which bordered the terrace.

She watched, she waited.

He is there among that confused mass of riders.