For just a moment, before they were actually under the culvert, Fred, looking up, saw the white faces of those above, staring curiously.

Then he lowered his head, for he knew that his face and Boris's gave the lie to their helmets.

Streaked with dust they both were, to be sure.

There had been a mist in the low-lying country through which they had come, and the flying dust of the higher, drier parts of the road had caked on their faces.

But they were not the faces of officers.
Fred thought he heard a shout as they passed under the culvert.