.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 41737
   :PG.Title: Burton of the Flying Corps
   :PG.Released: 2012-12-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Herbert Strang
   :MARCREL.ill: \C. \E. Brock
   :DC.Title: Burton of the Flying Corps
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1916
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

==========================
BURTON OF THE FLYING CORPS
==========================

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   .. _`Cover`:

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      :alt: Cover

      Cover

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   .. _`THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT`:

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      :alt: THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT.

      THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT.  *See page* `22`_.

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      BURTON OF THE
      FLYING CORPS

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      BY

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      HERBERT STRANG

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      *ILLUSTRATED BY \C. \E. BROCK*

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      LONDON
      HENRY FROWDE
      HODDER AND STOUGHTON

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      *First printed in 1916.*

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      PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD.,
      BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

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   CONTENTS

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   I `DÉFENSE DE FUMER`_

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   Showing how Burton made a trip to Ostend in
   pursuit of a spy

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   II `THE DEATH'S HEAD HUSSAR`_

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   Relating Burton's adventure in a French chateau

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   III `BORROWED PLUMES`_

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   Showing how Burton caught a German in Bulgaria

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   IV `THE WATCH-TOWER`_

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   Showing what followed an accident in Macedonia

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   V `THE MISSING PLATOON`_

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   Relating an incident of trench warfare in Flanders

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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   COLOUR PLATES

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   `Through the Skylight`_ . . . *Frontispiece* (*see page* `22`_)

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   `An Interruption`_

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   `Nonplussed`_

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   `Hands up!`_

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   DRAWINGS IN LINE

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   `"Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"`_

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   `Signals of Distress`_

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   `"I give him in charge"`_

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   `Congratulations`_

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   `"You have had an accident"`_

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   `The German Way`_

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   `The Marquis is hit`_

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   `The Door fell in with a Crash`_

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   `An Aerial Somersault`_

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   `"He looks a terrible fellow"`_

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   `A Discomfited Spy`_

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   `"Dismount, sir"`_

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   `Milosh waits`_

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   `"A strange find, upon my word"`_

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   `A Perilous Moment`_

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   `The British Way`_

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   `The Captain is annoyed`_

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   Headings on pages `9`_, `63`_, `129`_, `163`_, `246`_

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.. _`DÉFENSE DE FUMER`:

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.. _`9`:

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   :alt: Chapter I Heading

   Chapter I Heading

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   DÉFENSE DE FUMER

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   I

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About one o'clock one Saturday afternoon
in summer, a hydro-aeroplane--or, as its
owner preferred to call it, a flying-boat--dropped
lightly on to the surface of one of
the many creeks that intersect the marshes
bordering on the river Swale.  The pilot,
a youth of perhaps twenty years, having
moored his vessel to a stake in the bank,
leapt ashore with a light suit-case, and
walked rapidly along a cinder path towards
the low wooden shed, painted black, that
broke the level a few hundred yards away.

It was a lonely spot--the very image
of dreariness.  All around extended the
"glooming flats"; between the shed and
Luddenham Church, a mile or so distant,
nothing varied the grey monotony except
an occasional tree, and a small red-brick,
red-tiled cottage, which, with its
flower-filled windows, seemed oddly out of place
amid its surroundings--an oasis in a desert.

The youth, clad in khaki-coloured
overalls and a pilot's cap, made straight for
the open door of the shed.  There he set
his suit-case on the ground, and stepping
in, recoiled before the acrid smell that
saluted his nostrils.  He gave a little cough,
but the man stooping over a bench that
ran along one of the walls neither looked
up, nor in any way signified that he was
aware of a visitor.  He was a tall, fair
man, spectacled, slightly bald, clean shaven,
dressed in garments apparently of
india-rubber.  The bench was covered with
crucibles, retorts, blow-pipes, test tubes,
Bunsen burners, and sundry other pieces
of scientific apparatus, and on the shelf
above it stood an array of glass bottles
and porcelain jars.  It was into such a jar
that the man was now gazing.

"Hullo, Pickles!" said the newcomer,
coughing again.  "What a frightful stink!"

The man lifted his head, looked vacantly
through his spectacles for a moment, then
bent again over the jar, from which he
took a small portion of a yellowish
substance on the end of a scalpel.  Placing
this in a glass bowl, he poured on it a little
liquid from one of the glass bottles, stirred
it with a glass rod, and watched.  A smell
of ammonia combined with decayed fish
mingled with the other odours in the air,
causing the visitor to choke again.

"Beautiful!" murmured the experimenter.
He then poured some of the solution
into another vessel and gazed at it
with the rapt vision of an enthusiast.

Ted Burton leant against the doorpost.
He knew that it was useless to interrupt
his friend until the experiment was
concluded.  But becoming impatient as the
minutes passed, he took out a cigarette,
and was about to strike a match.  Then,
however, at a sudden recollection of his
surroundings, he slipped out into the open
air, taking great gulps as if to clear his
throat of the sickening fumes, and
proceeded to light his cigarette in ease of mind.

By and by a cheery voice hailed him from
the interior.

"That you, Teddy?"

"If you've quite finished," said Burton,
putting his head in at the door, after he
had first flung away his half-smoked cigarette.

"Glad to see you, my dear fellow.  I
say, will you do something for me?  You
came in your machine, of course."

"Of course.  What is it?  It's about
lunch-time, you know."

"Is it?  But it won't take you long.
I've run out of picric acid, and can't get on.
Just fly over to Chatham, will you, and
bring some back with you.  You'll get it at
Wells's in the High Street: you'll be there
and back in half an hour or so."

"Can't you wait till after lunch?"

"Well, I can, but it will be a nuisance.
You see, the whole experiment is hung up
for want of the stuff."

"Oh, very well.  By the way, you've
done it at last, I see."

"Done what?"

"Pulled off the phenosulphonitro-something-or-other
that you've been working at
I don't know how long."

"How on earth did you know?" inquired
his friend with an air of surprise and chagrin.

Burton pulled out a newspaper, unfolded
it, and handed it over, pointing to a short
paragraph.

.. vspace:: 2

We understand that a new high explosive of
immense power, the invention of Dr. Bertram
Micklewright, is about to be adopted for the
British Navy.  Dr. Micklewright has been for
some years engaged in perfecting his discovery,
and after prolonged experimentation has
succeeded in rendering his explosive stable.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, I'm hanged!" cried Micklewright,
frowning with annoyance.  "The Admiralty
swore me to secrecy, and now they've let
the cat out of the bag.  Some confounded
whipper-snapper of a clerk, I suppose, who's
got a journalist brother."

"It's true, then?"

"Yes, by Jove, it's true!  Look, here's
the stuff; licks lyddite hollow."

He took some yellowish crystals from a
porcelain bath and displayed them with the
pride of an inventor.

"I say, Pickles, is it safe?" said Burton,
backing as the chemist held the stuff up for
his inspection.

"Perfectly," said Micklewright with a
smile.  "It's more difficult even than
lyddite to detonate, and it'll burn without
exploding.  Look here!"

He put a small quantity into a zinc pan,
lit a match, and applied it.  A column of
suffocating smoke rose swiftly to the roof.
Burton spluttered.

"Beautiful!" he gasped ironically.  "I'm
glad, old man; your fortune's made now,
I suppose.  But I can't say I like the stink.
Takes your appetite away, don't it?"

"Ah!  You mentioned lunch.  Just get
me that stuff like a good fellow; then I'll
prepare my solution; and then we'll have
lunch and you can dispose of me as you
please."

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   II

.. vspace:: 2

Burton returned to the creek, boarded
his flying-boat, and was soon skimming
across country on the fifteen-mile flight to
Chatham.

He had been Micklewright's fag at school,
and the two had remained close friends ever
since.  Micklewright, after carrying all
before him at Cambridge, devoted himself to
research, and particularly to the study of
explosives.  To avoid the risk of shattering
a neighbourhood, he had built his
laboratory on the Luddenham Marshes, putting
up the picturesque little cottage close at
hand for his residence.  There he lived
attended only by an old woman, who often
assured him that no one else would be
content to stay in so dreary a spot.  He had
wished Burton, when he left school, to join
him as assistant: but the younger fellow
had no love for "stinks," and threw in his
lot with a firm of aeroplane builders.  Their
factory being on the Isle of Sheppey, within
a few miles of Micklewright's laboratory,
the two friends saw each other pretty
frequently; and when Burton started a flying-boat
of his own, he often invited himself to
spend a week-end with Micklewright, and
took him for long flights for the good of
his health, as he said: "an antidote to
your poisonous stenches, old man."

Burton was so much accustomed to
voyage in the air that he had ceased to pay
much attention to the ordinary scenes on
the earth beneath him.  But he had
completed nearly a third of his course when his
eye was momentarily arrested by the sight
of two motor-cycles, rapidly crossing the
railway bridge at Snipeshill.  To one of
them was attached a side car, apparently
occupied.  Motor-cycles were frequently
to be seen along the Canterbury road, but
Burton was struck with a passing wonder
that these cyclists had quitted the
highway, and were careering along a road that
led to no place of either interest or
importance.  If they were exploring they would
soon realise that they had wasted their
time, for the by-road rejoined the main
road a few miles further east.

On arriving at Chatham, Burton did not
descend near the cemetery, as he might
have done with his landing chassis, but
passed over the town and alighted in the
Medway opposite the "Sun" pier.  Thence
he made his way to the address in the High
Street given him by Micklewright.  He was
annoyed when he found the place closed.

"Just like old Pickles!" he thought.
"He forgot it's Saturday."  But, loth to
have made his journey for nothing, he
inquired for the private residence of the
proprietor of the store, and luckily finding
him at home, made known the object of
his visit.

"I'm sorry I shall have to ask you to
wait, sir," said the man.  "The place is
locked up, as you saw; my men have gone
home, and I've an engagement that will
keep me for an hour or so; perhaps I could
send it over--some time this evening?"

"No, I'd better wait.  Dr. Micklewright
wants the stuff as soon as possible.  When
will it be ready?"

"If you'll be at the store at three o'clock
I will have it ready packed."

It was now nearly two.

"No time to fly back to lunch and come
again," thought Burton, as he departed.
"I'll get something to eat at the 'Sun,' and
ring old Pickles up and explain."

He made his way to the hotel, a little
annoyed at wasting so fine an afternoon.
Entering the telephone box he gave
Micklewright's number and waited.  Presently a
girl's voice said--

"There's no reply.  Shall I ring you off?"

"Oh!  Try again, will you, please?"

Micklewright often took off the receiver
in the laboratory, to avoid interruption
during his experiments, and Burton
supposed that such was the case now.  He
waited; a minute or two passed; then the
girl's voice again--

"I can't put you on.  There's something
wrong with the line."

"Thank you very much," said Burton;
he was always specially polite to the
anonymous girls of the telephone exchange, because
"they always sound so worried, poor things,"
as he said.  "Bad luck all the time," he
thought, as he hung up the receiver.

He passed to the coffee-room, ate a light
lunch, smoked a cigarette, looked in at the
billiard-room, and on the stroke of three
reappeared at the chemist's store.  In a
few minutes he was provided with a package
carefully wrapped, and by twenty minutes
after the hour was soaring back to his
friend's laboratory.

Alighting as before at the creek, he
walked up the path.  The door of the shed
was locked.  He rapped on it, but received
no answer, and supposed that Micklewright
had returned to the house, though he
noticed with some surprise that his suit-case
still stood where he had left it.  He lifted
it, went on to the cottage, and turned the
handle of the front door.  This also was
locked.  Feeling slightly irritated, Burton
knocked more loudly.  No one came to the
door; there was not a sound from within.
He knocked again; still without result.
Leaving his suit-case on the doorstep, he
went to the back, and tried the door on that
side.  It was locked.

"This is too bad," he thought.  "Pickles
is an absent-minded old buffer, but I never
knew him so absolutely forgetful as this.
Evidently he and the old woman are both
out."

He returned to the front of the house, and
seeing that the catch of one of the windows
was not fastened, he threw up the lower
sash, hoisted his suit-case over the sill, and
himself dropped into the room.  The table
was laid for lunch, but nothing had been used.

"Rummy go!" said Burton to himself.

Conscious of a smell of burning, he crossed
the passage, and glanced in at Micklewright's
den, then at the kitchen, where the
air was full of the fumes of something
scorching.  A saucepan stood on the dying
fire.  Lifting the lid, he saw that it
contained browned and blackened potatoes.
He opened the oven door, and fell back
before a cloud of smoke impregnated with
the odour of burnt flesh.

"They must have been called away very
suddenly," he thought.  "Perhaps there's
a telegram that explains it."

He was returning to his friend's room
when he was suddenly arrested by a slight
sound within the house.

"Who's there?" he called, going to the door.

From the upper floor came an indescribable
sound.  Now seriously alarmed, Burton
sprang up the stairs and entered
Micklewright's bedroom.  It was empty and
undisturbed.  The spare room which he
was himself to occupy was equally
unremarkable.  Once more he heard the sound:
it came from the housekeeper's room.

"Are you there?" he called, listening at
the closed door.

He flung it open at a repetition of the
inarticulate sound.  There, on the bed, lay
the old housekeeper in a huddled heap, her
hands and feet bound, and a towel tied over
her head.  This he removed in a moment.

.. _`"Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"`:

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   :alt: "Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"

   "Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"

"Oh, Mr. Burton, sir, I'm so glad you've
come," gasped the old woman; "oh, those
awful men!"

"What has happened, Mrs. Jones?" cried
Burton; "where's the doctor?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir.  I'm all of a
shake, and the mutton'll be burnt to a cinder."

"Never mind the mutton!  Pull yourself
together and tell me what happened."

He had cut the cords, and lifted her from
the bed.

"Oh, it near killed me, it did.  I was just
come upstairs to put on a clean apron when
I heard the door open, and some one went
into the kitchen.  I thought it was the
doctor, and called out that I was coming.
Next minute two men came rushing up,
and before I knew where I was they
smothered my head in the towel, and flung
me on to the bed like a bundle and tied
my hands and feet.  It shook me all to
pieces, sir."

Burton waited for no more, but leapt
down the stairs, vaulted over the window
sill, and rushed towards the laboratory,
trembling with nameless fears.  He tried
to burst in the door, but it resisted all his
strength.  There were no windows in the
walls; the place was lighted from above.
Shinning up the drain-pipe, he scrambled
along the gutter until he could look through
the skylight in the sloping roof.  And then
he saw Micklewright, with his back towards
him, sitting rigid in a chair.


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.. _`22`:

   III

.. vspace:: 2

Burton drove his elbow through the
skylight, swung himself through the hole, and
dropped to the floor.  To his great relief
he saw that Micklewright was neither dead
nor unconscious; indeed, his eyes were
gazing placidly at him through his
spectacles.  It was the work of a moment to cut
the cords that bound the chemist's legs and
arms to the chair, and to tear from his
mouth the thick fold of newspaper that had
gagged him.

"Wood pulp!" said Micklewright, with
a grimace of mild disgust, as soon as he
could speak.  "Beastly stuff!--if I've got
to be gagged, gag me with rag!"

"Who did it?  What's it mean?" said Burton.

"It means that somebody was keenly
interested in that paragraph which the
Admiralty clerk so kindly supplied to his
journalist brother."

"The new explosive?"

"Yes.  Competitors abhor a secret....
The taste of printer's ink on pulp paper is
very obnoxious, Teddy."

"Hang the paper!  Tell me what happened."

"It was very neatly done.  As nearly as
I can recollect, a man put his head in at
the door and asked politely, but in broken
English, the way to Faversham.  Being
rather busy at the time I'm afraid I
misdirected him.  But it didn't matter, because
a second or two after I was kicking the shins
of two other fellows who were hugging me;
I'm sorry I had to use my boots, but my
fists were not at the moment available.
You see how it ended.

"They had just fixed me in the
chair--printer's ink is *very* horrid--when the
telephone bell rang.  My first visitor told one
of the others, in French, to cut the wire:
it must have been rather annoying to the
person at the other end."

"I was trying to get you in the 'Sun.'  But go on."

"Their next movements much interested
me.  The commander of the expedition
began to scout along the bench, and soon
discovered my explosive--by the way, I
proposed to call it Hittite.  He was a cool
card.  He first burnt a little: 'Bien!' said
he.  Then he exploded a little: 'Bien!'
again.  Then he scooped the whole lot into
a brown leather bag, just as it was, and
made off, lifting his hat very politely as he
went out.  He had some trouble in getting
his motor-cycle to fire----"

"They came on motor-cycles?  I saw
two crossing the railway at Snipeshill as I
went.  Look here, Pickles, this is serious,
isn't it?"

"Well, of course any fool could make
Hittite after a reputable chemist has
analysed my stuff.  I shall have to start again,
I suppose."

"Great Scott!  How can you take it so
coolly?  The ruffians have got to be caught.
Can you describe them?"

"Luckily, they allowed me the use of
my eyes, though I've heard of speaking
eyes, haven't you?  They were all
foreigners.  The commander was a big fellow,
bald as an egg, with a natty little
moustache, very urbane, well educated, to judge
by his accent, though you can never tell
with these foreigners.  The others were
bearded--quite uninteresting--chauffeurs or
mechanics--men of that stamp.  Their
boss was a personality."

"He spoke French?"

"Yes.  You brought that picric acid, Teddy?"

"It's in the house.  By the way, they
gagged Mrs. Jones too."

"Not with a newspaper, I hope.  I'm
afraid the poor old thing will give me notice.
We had better go and console her."

They mounted on the bench, clambered
thence through the skylight, and slid to
the ground.

"Look here, Pickles," said Burton, as they
went towards the house, "I'm going after
those fellows.  Being foreigners they are
almost sure to have made for the
Continent at once.  I'll run down to the road
and examine the tracks of their cycles;
you've got an ABC in the house?"

"It is possible."

"Well, hunt it out and look up the
boats for Calais.  How long have they been
gone?"

"Perhaps three-quarters of an hour."

"A dashed good start!" exclaimed
Burton.  "We'll save time if you bring the
ABC down to the creek.  Buck up, old
chap; no wool-gathering now, for goodness' sake."

They parted.  A brief examination of
the tracks assured Burton that the cyclists
had continued their journey eastward.
They would probably run into the
highroad to Dover somewhere about Norton
Ash.  Returning to the creek he was met
by Micklewright with the buff-coloured
timetable.  Micklewright was limping a little.

"There's no Calais boat at this time of
day," he said.

"Did you try Folkestone?"

"It didn't occur to me."

Burton took the time-table from him and
turned over the pages rapidly.

"Here we are: Folkestone to Boulogne,
4.10.  It's now 3.35," said Burton, looking
at his watch.  "I can easily get to
Folkestone in half an hour or less--possibly
intercept the beggars if they don't know
the road: in any case be in time to put the
police on before the boat starts.  You'll
come, Pickles?"

"Well, no.  I strained a muscle or two
in scuffling with those gentlemen--and I've
had nothing but newspaper since eight
o'clock.  By the way, you may as well
take the only clue we have--this scrap of
pulp.  It is French, as you see.  And, Teddy,
don't get into hot water on my account.
The resources of civilisation--as expressed
in high explosives--are not exhausted."

Burton stuffed the newspaper into his
pocket, and in three minutes was already
well on the way to Folkestone.  Micklewright
watched the flying-boat until it
was lost to sight; then, pressing his hand
to his aching side, he returned slowly to
the house.

The distance from the Luddenham
Marshes to Folkestone is about twenty-five
miles as the crow flies, and Burton
had made the flight once in his flying-boat.
Consequently, he was at no loss in setting
his course.  A brisk south-west wind was
blowing, but it very little retarded his
speed, so that he felt pretty sure of reaching
the harbour by four o'clock.  Keeping at
an altitude of only a few hundred feet, he
was able to pick up the well-known
landmarks: Hogben's Hill, the Stour, the series
of woods lying between that river and the
Elham valley railway line; and just
before four he alighted on the sea leeward
of the pier, within a few yards of the
steamer.

A small boat took him ashore.  He
avoided the crowd of holiday makers who
had already gathered to watch him, and
making straight for the pier, accosted a
police inspector.

"Have you seen three men ride up on
motor cycles, inspector?" he asked.

"No, sir, I can't say I have."

"Three foreigners, one a tall big fellow?"

"Plenty of foreigners have gone on board,
sir.  Is anything wrong?"

"Yes, they've assaulted and robbed a
friend of mine--you may know his name:
Dr. Bertram Micklewright, the inventor.
They've stolen Government property, and
it's of the utmost importance to prevent
their crossing the Channel."

"Where did this take place, sir, and at
what time?"

"At Luddenham Marshes beyond Faversham,
just before three o'clock."

"They'd hardly have got here, would
they?  They'd have to come through
Canterbury, between thirty and forty miles, and
with speed limits here and there they'd only
just about do it."

"I'll wait here, then.  You'll arrest them
if they come?"

"That's a bit irregular, sir," said the
inspector, rubbing his chin.  "You saw
them do the job?"

"Well, no, I didn't."

"Then you can't be sure of 'em?"

"I'm afraid I can't, but there wouldn't
be two sets of foreigners on motor cycles.
You could detain them on suspicion,
couldn't you?"

"I might, if you would take the responsibility."

"Willingly.  I'll keep a look-out then."

It occurred to Burton that the men might
leave the cycles and approach on foot, so
he closely scrutinised all the passengers of
foreign appearance who passed on the way
to the boat.  None of them answered to
Micklewright's description.

"Haven't you got any clue to their
identity, sir?" asked the inspector, who
remained at his side.

"None; it happened during my absence.
They tied up my friend and gagged him.  I
came across country in my flying machine
yonder."

"They'll lose this boat for certain," said
the inspector, as the steamer's warning siren
sounded.  "You're sure they are Frenchmen?"

"Yes; well, they left a French newspaper
behind them."

"Do you happen to have it with you?"

Burton drew the crushed paper from his
pocket, and handed it to the policeman, who
unfolded it, and displayed a torn sheet,
with only the letters IND remaining of the title.

"That's the *Indépendance Belge*," said
the inspector at once.  "I expect they're
Belgians, and aren't coming here at all.
Ostend's their mark, I wouldn't mind betting."

"Via Dover, of course.  Is there a boat?"

"One at 4.30, sir.  I'm afraid they've
dished you."

"I'm not so sure about that," said
Burton, glancing at his watch.  "It's now
4.20; this boat's off.  If the Ostend boat
is ten minutes late too I can get to Dover
in good time to have it searched."

"Then if I were you I'd lose no time, sir,
and I hope you'll catch 'em."

Burton raced back to the boat that had
brought him ashore.  In five minutes he
was on his own vessel, in two more he was
in full flight before the favouring wind,
and at 4.35 he dropped on the water in the
lee of the Admiralty pier at Dover.  But
he had already seen that he was too late.
The boat, which had evidently started on
time, was at least half a mile from the pier.

"Yes, sir, I did see a big foreigner go on
board at the last minute," said the
policeman of whom Burton inquired ten minutes
later.  "He was carrying a small brown
leather hand-bag.  I took particular note
of him, because he blowed like a grampus,
and took off his hat to wipe his head, he was
that hot."

"Was he bald?"

"As bald as the palm of your hand.  A
friend of yours, sir?"

"No," said Burton emphatically.  "He's
got away with a secret worth thousands of
pounds--millions perhaps, to a foreign navy."

The policeman whistled.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   IV

.. vspace:: 2

Burton stood looking at the diminishing
form of the steamboat.  The constable
touched his sleeve.

"You see that gentleman there, sir?"
he said.

Following his glance, Burton saw a slim
youthful figure, clad in a light tweed suit
and a soft hat, leaning over the rail.

"Well?" he asked.

The constable murmured a name honoured
at Scotland Yard.

"Put the case to him, sir," he added;
"he can see through most brick walls."
Burton hastened to the side of the detective.

"A man on that boat has stolen the
secret of the new explosive for the British
Navy," he said without preamble.  "Can
you stop him?"

The detective turned his keen eyes on his
questioner and looked hard at him for a
moment or two.

"Tell me all about it, sir," he said.

Burton hurriedly related all that had
happened.  "A cable to Ostend would
be enough, wouldn't it?" he asked in conclusion.

"I'm afraid it would hardly do, sir," replied
the detective.  "Your description is
too vague.  Tall man about forty, bald, with
a hand-bag--there may be dozens on the
boat.  It would be too risky.  We have to
be careful.  I saw a notorious diamond
thief go on board, but I couldn't arrest him,
not having a warrant, and nothing certain
to go upon.  You had better go to the
police station, tell the superintendent all
you know, and leave him to communicate
with the Belgian police in due course."

"And give the thief time to get rid of the
stuff!  If it once passes from his hands the
secret will be lost to us, and any foreign
Power may be able to fill its shells with
Dr. Micklewright's explosive.  It's too bad!"

He looked with bitter disappointment at
the steamer, now a mere speck on the surface
of the sea.  Suddenly he had an idea.

"If I got to Ostend first," he said, "I
could have the man arrested as he lands?"

The detective smiled.

"I don't think the Belgian police would
make an arrest on the strength of your
story, sir," he said.  "Why, you can't
even be sure your man is aboard.  Arresting
the wrong party might be precious
awkward for you and everybody."

"I'll risk that," cried Burton.  "It's
my funeral, any way."

"That little machine of yours is safe, I
suppose, sir?  It won't come down and
bury you at sea?"

"No fear!" said Burton with a smile.
"Still, in case of accidents, here's my card.
All I ask is, don't give anything away to
newspaper men for a couple of days, at any
rate.  It's to a newspaper man we owe the
whole botheration."

"All right, sir; I'll give you a couple of
days.  I wish you luck."

Burton hurried to one of the small boats
lying for hire alongside the pier, and was
put on board his own vessel.  He started
the motor, but in his haste he failed to
pull the lever with just that knack that
jerks the floats from the surface.  At the
second attempt he succeeded, and the
water-plane rose into the air as smoothly as
a gull.  The steamer was now out of sight,
but he had a general idea of her direction,
and hoped by rising to a good altitude soon
to get a glimpse of her.  The wind had
freshened, and time being of the utmost
importance, Burton congratulated himself
on the possession of a Clift compass, by
means of which he could allow for drift,
and avoid fatal error in setting his course.
The steamer had nearly an hour's start, but
as he travelled at least twice as fast, he
expected to overhaul her in about an hour
if he did not mistake her direction.

His mind was busy as he flew.  He had
to admit the force of what the detective
had said.  It would almost certainly be
difficult to induce the Belgian police to act
on such slight information as he could give
them; and in the bustle of landing, the
criminal, of whose identity he could not
be sure, might easily get away.  Burton
was beginning to feel that he had started
on a wild-goose chase when, catching sight
of the smoke of the vessel some miles ahead,
he suddenly, without conscious reasoning,
determined on his line of action.  Such
flashes sometimes occur at critical moments.

Waiting for a few minutes to make sure
that the distant vessel was that in which he
was interested, he bore away to the east,
instead of following directly the track of the
steamer.  It was scarcely probable that the
flying-boat had already been noticed from
the deck.  He described a half-circle of many
miles, so calculated that when he approached
the vessel it was from the east, at an angle
with her course.

He was still at a considerable height,
and as he passed over the vessel his view of
the deck was obscured by the cloud of
black smoke from her funnels.  In a few
seconds he wheeled as if to return on his
track; but soon after recrossing the steamer
he wheeled again, and making a steep
volplané, alighted on the sea about half a
mile ahead.  Then with his handkerchief
he began to make signals of distress.  There
was a considerable swell on the surface, and
it might well have seemed to those on board
the steamer who did not distinguish the
flying-boat from an aeroplane that the frail
vessel was in imminent danger.

.. _`Signals of distress`:

.. figure:: images/img-036.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Signals of distress

   Signals of distress

The steamer's helm was instantly ported;
she slowed down and was soon alongside.
A rope was let down by which Burton swung
himself to the deck; and while he struggled
through the crowd of excited passengers
who clustered about him, the flying-boat
was hoisted by a derrick, and the vessel
resumed its course.

Burton made his way to the bridge to
interview the captain.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir,"
he said.  "And I'm very sorry to have
delayed you.  My engine stopped."

"So did mine," returned the captain,
with a rather grim look about the mouth,
"or rather, I stopped them."  Burton
did not feel called upon to explain that
his stoppage also had been voluntary.
"And I shall have to push them to make
up for the twenty minutes we have lost.
You would not have drowned; I see your
machine floats; but you might have drifted
for days if I hadn't picked you up."

"It was very good of you," said Burton,
feeling sorry at having had to practise a
deception.  "It's my first voyage across Channel.
I started from Folkestone; better luck next
time.  I must pay my passage, captain."

"Certainly not," said the captain.  "I
won't take money from a gallant airman
in distress.  I have a great admiration
for airmen; they run double risks.  I
wouldn't trust myself in an aeroplane on
any account whatever."

Burton remained for some minutes chatting
with the captain, then descended to
the deck in search of his quarry, to be at
once surrounded by a group of first-class
passengers, who plied him with eager
questions about his starting-point, his
destination, and the nature of the accident
that had brought him down.  He answered
them somewhat abstractedly, so
preoccupied was he with his quest.  His eyes
roamed around, and presently he felt an
electric thrill as he caught sight, on the
edge of the crowd, of a tall portly figure
that corresponded, he thought, to Micklewright's
brief description.  The man had
a round red face, with a thick stiff
moustache upturned at the ends.  His prominent
blue eyes were fixed intently on Burton.
He wore a soft hat, and Burton, while
replying to a lady who wanted to know
whether air-flight made one sea-sick, was
all the time wondering if the head under
the hat was bald.

Disengaging himself by and by from
those immediately around him, he edged
his way towards this stalwart passenger.
It gave him another thrill to see that the
man held a small brown leather hand-bag.
He felt that he was "getting warm."  No
other passenger carried luggage; this bag
must surely contain something precious or
its owner would have set it down.  Burton
determined to get into conversation with
him, though he felt much embarrassed as to
how to begin.  The blue eyes were scanning
him curiously.

"I congratulate you, sir," said the
foreigner in English, politely lifting his hat.
Burton almost jumped when he saw that
the uncovered crown was hairless.

"Thank you, sir," he replied, in some
confusion.  "It was lucky I caught the boat."

As soon as the words were out of his
mouth, he thought, "What an idiotic thing
to say!" and his cheeks grew red.

"Zat ze boat caught you, you vould
say?" said the foreigner, smiling.  "But
your vessel is a hydro-aeroplane, I zink so?
Zere vas no danger zat you sink?"

"Well, I don't know.  With a swell on,
like this, it wouldn't be any safer than a
cock-boat; and in any case, it wouldn't be
too pleasant to drift about, perhaps for
days, without food."

"Zat is quite right; ven ze sea is choppy,
you feed ze fishes; ven it is calm, you have
no chops.  Ha! ha! zat is quite right.
You do not understand ze choke?" he
added, seeing that Burton did not smile.

"Oh yes! yes!" cried Burton, making
an effort.  "You speak English well, sir."

"Zank you, yes.  I have practised a lot.
I ask questions--yes, and ven zey ask you
chust now vat accident bring you down, I
do not quite understand all about it."

"It was quite an ordinary thing," said
Burton, rather uncomfortably.  The
explanation he had given to the questioners
was vague; he was loth to tell a deliberate
lie.  "Do you know anything about petrol
engines, sir?"

"Oh yes, certainly.  I ride on a
motor-bicycle.  One has often trouble viz ze
compression."

"That's true," said Burton, feeling
"warmer" than ever.  The foreigner was
evidently quite unsuspicious, or he would
not have mentioned the motor-cycle.  "We
have excellent roads in England," he added,
with a fishing intention.

"Zat is quite right; but zey are perhaps
not so good as our roads in France, eh?"

"Your roads are magnificent, it's true;
still--what do you say to the Dover Road?"

"Ah!  Ze Dover Road; yes, it is very
good, ever since ze Roman times, eh?  Yes;
I have travelled often on ze Dover Road,
from Dover to Chatham, and vice versa.
Viz zis bag!"

Burton looked hard at the bag.  He
wished it would open.  One peep, he was
sure, would be enough to convict this
amiable Frenchman.

"I have somezink in zis bag," the Frenchman
went on in a confidential tone--"somezink
great, somezink magnificent,--*éclatant*
as we say; somezink vat make a noise in
ze vorld."

He tapped the bag affectionately.  Burton
tingled; he would have liked to take the
man by the throat and denounce him as a
scoundrel.  But perhaps if he were patient
the confiding foreigner would open the bag.

"Indeed!" he said.

"Yes; a noise zat shall make ze hair
stand on end.  Ha! ha!  Ah! you
English.  You are ze great inventors.  Your
Sims, your Edvards, your Rowland--ah! zey
are great, zey are honoured by all ze
crowned heads in ze vorld.  Zat is quite
right!  I tell you! ... No; it is late.
You shall be in Ostend, sir?"

"Yes."

"Zen you shall see, you shall hear, vat a
great sensation I shall make.  Now it gets
dark; if you shall pardon me, I vill take a
little sleep until ve arrive.  Zen!..."

He lifted his hat again, and withdrew to
a deck chair, where he propped the bag
carefully under his head and was soon asleep.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   V

.. vspace:: 2

Burton strolled up and down the deck,
impatient for the boat to make the port.
He was convinced: the man was French;
he was tall, urbane, and bald; he rode a
motor-cycle; he knew the Dover Road; he
guarded his bag as something precious, and
it contained something that was going to
make a noise in the world.  What so likely
to do that as Micklewright's explosive!

One thing puzzled Burton; the man's
allusion to English inventors--Sims,
Edwards, Rowland--who were they?  Burton
subscribed to a good many scientific
magazines, and kept closely in touch with recent
inventions; but he did not recall any of
these names.  It flashed upon him that the
Frenchman, rendered suspicious by his
fishing questions, had mentioned the names
as a blind; he had spoken of Sims, Edwards
and Rowland when his mind was really full
of Micklewright.

"If that's your game, it won't wash,"
he thought.

He determined, as soon as the vessel
reached port, to hurry ashore, interview
the Customs officers, and warn them in
general terms of the dangerous nature of
what the Frenchman carried.  If only the
bag had been opened and its contents
revealed, he would not have hesitated to
inform the captain, and have the villain
detained.  But the Customs officers, primed
with his information, would insist on
opening the bag, and then!--yes, there would
undoubtedly be "a noise in the world,"
when it became known that so audacious
a scheme had been detected and foiled.

The sun went down, the steamer plugged
her way onward, and through the darkness
the lamps of Ostend by and by gleamed
faintly in the distance.  Burton made his
way to the bridge again, and asked the
captain to allow the flying-boat to remain
on the vessel till the morning; then he
returned to the deck, and leant on the rail
near the gangway.

All was bustle as the steamer drew near
to the harbour.  The passengers collected
their belongings, and congregated.  Some
spoke to Burton; he hardly heeded them.
He had his eye on the Frenchman, still
slumbering peacefully.

The bells clanged; the vessel slowed;
a rope was thrown to the pier; and two
of the sailors stood ready to launch the
gangway as soon as the boat came to rest.
The moment it clattered on to the planks
of the pier Burton was across, and hurried
to the shed where the Customs officers, like
spiders in wait for unwary flies, were lined
up behind their counter, cool, keen, alert.
He accosted the chief douanier, described the
Frenchman in a few rapid sentences,
suggested that the brown bag would repay
examination, and receiving assurance that
the proper inquiries should be made, posted
himself outside at the corner of the shed in
the dark, to watch the scene.

The passengers came by one by one, and
answering the formal question, had their
luggage franked by the mystic chalk mark
and passed on.  Burton's pulse throbbed
as he saw the tall Frenchman come briskly
into the light of the lamps.

"Here he is!" whispered the officers one
to another.

"Have you anything to declare,
monsieur?" asked one of them, with formal
courtesy.

"No, no, monsieur," replied the man;
"you see I have only a hand-bag."

He laid it on the counter to be chalked.

"Be so good as to open the bag, monsieur,"
said the officer.

The Frenchman stared; the passengers
behind him pricked up their ears as he
began to expostulate in a torrent of French
too rapid for Burton to follow.  The officer
shrugged, and firmly repeated his demand.
Still loudly protesting, the Frenchman drew
a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected
one, and with a gesture of despair laid open
the bag to the officer's inspection.

Burton drew a little nearer and watched
feverishly.  The officer put his hand into
the bag, and drew forth a bundle of what
appeared to be striped wool.  Exclaiming
at its weight, he laid it on the counter, and
began to unroll it.  His colleagues smiled
as he held aloft the pantaloons of a suit of
pyjamas.  He threw them down, and took
up the object round which the garment had
been wrapped.  It was a large glass bottle,
filled with a viscid yellowish liquid, and
bearing a label.

"Voila!" shouted its owner.  "Je vous
l'avais bien dit."

The officer took up the bottle, eyeing it
suspiciously.  He examined the label; he
took out the stopper and sniffed, then held
the bottle to the noses of his colleagues, who
sniffed in turn.

"It will not explode?" he said to the Frenchman.

"Explode!" snorted the man scornfully.
"It is harmless; it is perfect; it contains
no petroleum; look, there is the warranty
on the label.  Bah!"

He struck a match and held it to the
mouth of the open bottle, which the officer
extended at arm's length.  The flame
flickered and went out.

"Voila!" said the Frenchman with a
triumphant snort.

Then fumbling in his pocket he drew out
a sheaf of flimsy papers.  One of these he
handed to the officer, who glanced at it,
smiled, said, "Ah! oui! oui!" and
replacing the stopper, rolled the bottle in
the pyjamas again.

"But it is not yet certain," he exclaimed.
"Monsieur will permit me."

He plunged his hand again into the bag,
whose owner made a comical gesture of
outraged modesty as the officer brought out,
first the companion jacket of the pantaloons,
then a somewhat ancient tooth-brush.  He
rummaged further, turned the bag upside
down.  It contained nothing else.

"A thousand excuses, monsieur," he said,
replacing the articles, and chalking the bag.

"Ah!  It is your duty," said the passenger
magnanimously.  "Good-night, monsieur."

Catching sight of Burton as he was
passing on, he stopped.

"Ah! my friend, here you are," he said.
"I give you vun of my announce.  It has
ze address.  I see you to-morrow?  Zat
is quite right!"

Then he lifted his hat and went his way.

Burton thrust the slip of paper into his
pocket without looking at it.  He felt
horribly disconcerted.  The fluid in the
bottle was certainly not Micklewright's
explosive; that was a crystalline solid.  He
had made an egregious mistake.  It was
more than disappointing; it was humiliating.
He had been engaged in a wild-goose
chase indeed.  His stratagem was wasted;
his suspicions were unfounded; his deductions
utterly fallacious.  While he was
dogging this innocent Frenchman, the real
villain was no doubt on the other side of
the sea, waiting for the night boat from
Dover or perhaps Newhaven.  He had made
a fool of himself.

Despondent and irritated, he was about
to find his way to the nearest hotel for the
night, when he suddenly noticed a second
portly figure approaching the shed
among the file of passengers.  The man was
hatless; he was bald; he carried a brown
leather hand-bag.  His collar was limp; his
face was clammy, and of that pallid greenish
hue which betokens beyond possibility of
doubt a severe attack of sea-sickness.

At the first glance Burton started; at
the second he flushed; then, on the impulse
of the moment, he sprang forward, and
reaching the side of the flabby passenger at
the moment when he placed his bag upon the
counter, he laid his hand upon it, and cried--

"My bag, monsieur!"

The bald-headed passenger glanced round
in mere amazement, clutching his bag.

"Excuse me, monsieur," he said quietly,
"it is mine."

The Customs officer looked from one to
the other: the pallid foreigner, limp and
nerveless; the ruddy Englishman, eager,
strenuous and determined.

"Ah!  You gave me the warning.  You
were mistaken," he said to Burton.  "The
other bag contained only pyjamas, a bottle,
and a toothbrush; nothing harmful.  Monsieur
is too full of zeal; he may be mistaken
again.  He accuses this gentleman of
stealing his bag?  Well, that is a matter for the
police.  I will do my duty, then you can
find a policeman.  Have you anything to
declare?" he concluded in his official tone.

"Nothing," said the foreigner.

"A thousand cigarettes!" cried Burton
at the same moment.

Each had still a hand on the bag.  At
Burton's words the passenger gave him a
startled glance, and Burton knew by the
mingled wonder and terror in his eyes that
this time he had made no mistake.

"Comment!  A thousand cigarettes!"
repeated the officer.  "Messieurs must
permit me to open the bag."

He drew it from their grasp.  It opened
merely by a catch.  The officer peeped
inside, and shot a questioning look at
Burton, who bent over, and at a single glance
recognised the small yellowish crystals.

"That's it!" he cried in excitement.

"Monsieur will perhaps explain," said
the officer to the owner of the bag, who
appeared to have become quite apathetic.
"There are no cigarettes; no; but what
is this substance?  Is it on the Customs
schedule?  No.  Very well, I must
impound it for inquiry."

The man, almost in collapse from
weakness, began to mumble something.  The
officer's remark about impounding the stuff
disturbed Burton.  If it got into expert hands
Micklewright's secret would be discovered.

Acting on a sudden inspiration, he took
a cigarette from his case, and struck a match.

"Eh, monsieur, it is forbidden to smoke,"
cried the officer sternly.

At the same time he nodded his head
towards the placard "*Défense de fumer*"
affixed to the wall.

"Ah!  Pardon!  Forbidden!  So it is,"
said Burton, who was shading the lighted
match within his rounded palm from the
wind.  He made as if to throw it away, but
with a dexterous cast dropped it flaming
into the open bag.  Instantly there was a
puff and whizz, and a column of thick
suffocating smoke spurted up to the roof.
The officer started back with an
execration.  A lady shrieked; others of the
passengers took to their heels.  The air was
full of pungent fumes and lurid exclamations,
and in the confusion the owner of the bag
quietly slipped away into the darkness.
Burton stood his ground.  His task was
done.  Every particle of Micklewright's
explosive that had left the shores of
England was dissipated in gas.  The secret was
saved.

.. _`"I give him in charge"`:

.. figure:: images/img-051.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I give him in charge"

   "I give him in charge"

Choking and spluttering the officer dashed
forward, shaking his fist in Burton's face,
mingling terms of Gallic abuse with explosive
cries for the police.  A gendarme came up.

"I give him in charge," shouted the
officer, with gesticulations.  "It is forbidden
to smoke; see, the place is full of smoke!
The other man; where is he?  It is a
conspiracy.  They are anarchists.  Arrest
the villain!"

"Monsieur will please come with me,"
said the gendarme, touching Burton on
the sleeve.

"All right," said Burton cheerfully.  "I
can smoke as we go along?"

"It is not forbidden to smoke in the
streets," replied the gendarme gravely.

And with one hand on the prisoner's arm,
the other carrying the empty bag, he set
off towards the town.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VI

.. vspace:: 2

Two evenings later, Burton descended on
the creek in the Luddenham Marshes, and
hastened with lightsome step to Micklewright's
laboratory.  It was the time of day
when Micklewright usually ceased work and
went home to his dinner.

"Still at it!" thought Burton, as he saw
that the laboratory door was open.

He went on quickly and looked in.
Micklewright was bending over his bench
in his customary attitude of complete
absorption.

"Time for dinner, old man," said Burton, entering.

"Hullo!  That you!  Come and look at this."

"Upon my word, that's a cool greeting
after I've been braving no end of dangers
for your sake."

"What's that you say?  Look at this,
Teddy; isn't it magnificent!"

Burton looked into the bowl held up for
his inspection, and saw nothing but a
dirty-looking mixture that smelt rather badly.

"You see, it's like this," said Micklewright,
and went on to describe in the
utmost technical detail the experiment upon
which he had been engaged.  Burton listened
with resignation; he knew by experience
that it saved time to let his friend have his
talk out.

"Magnificent!  I take your word for
it," he said, when Micklewright had finished
his description.  "But look here, old man,
doesn't it occur to you to wonder where I've
been?"

"Why should it?" asked Micklewright
in unaffected surprise.  He looked puzzled
when Burton laughed; then remembrance
dawned in his eyes.  "Of course; I
recollect now.  You went after those foreigners.
I had almost forgotten them."

"Forgotten the beggars who had stolen
your secret?" cried Burton.

"Hittite!  Well, you see, it was gone;
no good pulling a long face over it, though
it was a blow after three years' work.  I
groused all day Sunday, but recognised it
as a case of spilt milk, and this morning
started on a new tack.  I'm on the scent
of something else.  Whether it will be any
good or not I can't say yet."

"Surely you got detectives down?"

"Well, no, I didn't.  It's much the best
to keep such things quiet.  The fellows had
got away with the stuff, and before the
police could have done anything they'd be
out of reach.  So I just buckled to."

"Very philosophic of you!" said Burton
drily.  "I needn't have put myself about,
then.  Well, hand over fifty francs, and I'll
cry quits."

"Fifty--francs, did you say?  Won't
shillings do?"

"No; I was fined in francs.  I won't
take advantage of you."

"I seem to be rather at sea," said
Micklewright.  "Have the French started air
laws, and you broken 'em and been nabbed?
But what were you doing in France?"

"Come and let's have some dinner,"
said Burton, putting his arm through his
friend's.  "I'm sure you don't eat enough.
Any one will tell you that want of proper
grub makes you dotty."

Micklewright locked up the laboratory,
and went on with Burton to the house.
Burton found his suit-case in the spare room
and was glad to make a rapid toilet and
change of clothes.  In twenty minutes he
was at one end of the dining-table, facing
Micklewright at the other, and old
Mrs. Jones was carrying in the soup.  Burton
waited, before beginning his story, until
Micklewright had disposed of an excellent
steak, and "looked more human," as he
said; then--

"Since I saw you last, I've been to
Ostend," he began.

"Jolly good oysters there," said Micklewright.

"Ah!  You're sane at last!  I didn't go
for oysters, though; I went for--Hittite."

"You don't mean to say----" cried Micklewright.

"Don't be alarmed," Burton interrupted.
"There's none there now.  Just listen
without putting your spoke in, will you!"

He related the incidents of his flights to
Folkestone and Dover, his pursuit of the
steamer, and the trick by which he had
been taken on board.

"And then I made an ass of myself,"
he continued.  "But it's owing--partly at
any rate--to your lucid description, Pickles.
Tall, stout, bald, moustache, brown bag;
all the details to a T.  I got into conversation
with the man, and when it turned out
that he was a motor-cyclist, knew the Dover
Road, and had something in his bag that was
going to make a noise in the world, I made
sure I'd got the right man.

"You can imagine how sold I felt when,
after persuading the Customs fellows to
insist on opening his bag, all they fished
out was a suit of pyjamas, an old
toothbrush, and a bottle full of a
custardy-looking stuff.  He was very good-tempered
about it--much more than I should have
been if my wardrobe had been exposed.
I was feeling pretty cheap when another
fellow came along, whom your description
fitted equally well, though he wasn't a
scrap like the first man.  He had evidently
been horribly sea-sick; had gone below,
I suppose, which was the reason why I
hadn't seen him before.  The wind had
carried away his hat, and his bald pate
betrayed him.  I got his bag opened; had
to pretend that it was mine, and full of
cigarettes; and your stuff being loose in
the bag it went up with a fine fizz when I
dropped a match into it.  That's why you
owe me fifty francs.  They lugged me off
to the police station, and next day fined me
fifty for smoking on forbidden ground,
though, as I pointed out, *I* hadn't done any
smoking, and they ought really to have
fined the fellow who had the stuff in his bag.
They were very curious as to what that was,
but of course I didn't give it away.  And it's
rather rotten to find that after all you don't
care a copper cent!"

"Not at all, my dear chap; I'm
extremely grateful to you.  I only hope you
won't ruin me."

"Ruin you!  What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, with Hittite safe, I shall
be so sickening rich that I am almost bound
to get lazy."

"If that's your trouble, just hand it
over to me; *I* don't mind being rich, though
I'm not an inventor.  But I say, Pickles,
that reminds me: do you know any inventors
of the names of Sims, Edwards and--what
was the other?--Rowland?"

"Can't say I do.  Why?"

"Why, the wrong man--the bottle man,
you know--gassed about the greatness of
our English inventors, and mentioned these
three specially, to put me off the scent, I
thought.  Of course his talk of inventors
made me all the more sure that he had your
stuff in his bag."

"Well, I can't recall any of them.  Sims--you've
never heard me talk of any one
named Sims, have you, Martha?" he asked
of the housekeeper, who entered at this
moment with the coffee.

"No, sir; though if you don't mind me
saying so, I've been a good mind to name
him myself this long time, only I didn't like
to be so bold."

"My dear good woman, what are you
driving at?" asked Micklewright in astonishment.

"Why, sir, I dare say busy gentlemen like
yourself don't notice it till some one tells
'em, their combs and brushes being kept tidy
unbeknownst; but the truth is, I've been
worriting myself over that--I reelly don't
like to mention it, but there, being old
enough to be your mother--I mean, sir,
that little bald spot jest at the crown of
the head, sir--jest at the end of the parting, like."

Micklewright laughed as he put his hand
on the spot.

"Well, but--Sims?" he said.

"Well, sir, it didn't ought to be there in
a gentleman of your age, and thinks I to
myself: 'Now, if only the master would
try one of them hair-restorers he might
have his locks back as luxurious as ever
they was.'  And I cut the particklers out
of that *Strand* magazine you gave me, sir,
and how to choose between 'em I *don't*
know, they're all that good.  There's
Edwards' Harlene for the Hair, and Rowland's
antimacassar oil, and Tatcho, made by
that gentleman as writes so beautiful in the
Sunday papers; he's the gentleman you
mean, I expect--George R. Sims."

The men shouted with laughter, and
Mrs. Jones withdrew, happy that her timid
suggestion had given no offence.

"To think of you in pursuit of a
hairdresser gives me great joy," said
Micklewright presently.  "He *must* have been a
hairdresser, Teddy."

"I suppose he was," assented Burton
rather glumly.  "By the way"--he felt
in his pockets.  "He gave me a handbill;
I didn't look at it at the moment; it's in the
pocket of my overall, of course.  I'll fetch it."

He returned, smoothing the crumpled
slip of paper, and smiling broadly.

"Here you are," he said.  "'Arsène
Lebrun, artist in hair, having returned
from London with a marvellous new specific
for promoting a luxuriant vegetation'--I
am translating, Pickles--'on the most
barren soil, respectfully invites all
gentlemen, especially those with infantine
heads'--that's very nice!--'to assist at a public
demonstration on Sunday, August 20.
Arsène Lebrun will then massage with his
fructifying preparation the six most vacant
heads in Ostend, and lay the seeds of a
magnificent harvest, which he will subsequently
have the honour to reap.'  Hittite isn't in
it with that, old man."

At this moment there was a double knock
at the door, and Mrs. Jones soon re-entered
with a letter.

"From the Admiralty," said Micklewright,
tearing open the envelope.  "Listen to this,
Teddy."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

"'I am directed by the Lords Commissioners of
the Admiralty to say that they are prepared to
pay you £20,000 for the formula of your new
explosive, and a royalty, the amount of which
will be subsequently arranged, on every ton
manufactured.  They lay down as a peremptory
condition that the formula be kept absolutely
secret, and that the explosive be supplied
exclusively to the British navy.  I shall be glad
if you will intimate your general agreement with
these terms.'"

.. vspace:: 2

"Congratulations, old boy!" cried
Burton heartily, grasping his friend's hand.
"It's magnificent!"

.. _`Congratulations`:

.. figure:: images/img-061.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Congratulations

   Congratulations

"I really think you are right, and as it's
very clear that but for you I shouldn't have
been able to accept any terms whatever, it's
only fair to----"

"Nonsense!" Burton interrupted.  "All
I want is fifty francs, for illicit smoking--a
cheap smoke, as it turns out."

"Can't do it, my boy.  Wait till I get
my Lords Commissioners' cheque."

A week or two later, Burton's firm
received an order from Dr. Micklewright for
a water-plane of the best type, with all the
latest improvements in canoe floats, and
the finest motor on the market.  When the
machine was ready for delivery, Micklewright
paid a visit to the factory.

"It's a regular stunner, old man," said
Burton, as he explained its points to his
friend.

"Well, Teddy, do me the favour to accept
it as a birthday present--a little memento
of your trip to Ostend."

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The DEATH'S HEAD HUSSAR`:

.. _`63`:

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter II Heading`:

.. figure:: images/img-063.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Chapter II Heading

   Chapter II Heading

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large

   The DEATH'S HEAD HUSSAR

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   I

.. vspace:: 2

"My compliments, Burton!  You brought
her down magnificently," said Captain Rolfe.
"Not much damage done, I hope?"

The airman stooping over the engine
grunted.  In a moment or two a grimy face
was upturned, the tall figure straightened
itself, and a crisp voice said ruefully--

"Magneto smashed to smithereens!"

He passed round to the side of the machine,
and retailed at short intervals the items of a
catalogue of damage.

"A stay cut! ... Two holes in the upper
plane! ... Four in the lower! ... Chips
and dents galore!  Still, we can fall back on
the old wife's consolation: it might have
been worse."

"All the same, it's precious awkward,"
said Captain Rolfe, putting his finger through
a hole in the lower plane.  "The Bosches
will be here in ten minutes."

"Not under twenty.  They've some difficult
country to cross.  But, of course, there's
no time to lose.  It's lucky there's a village
close by."

Edward Burton, airman, with Captain
Rolfe, who accompanied him as observer, had
just made an enforced volplané and landed
safely after running the gauntlet of German
rifles and machine guns.  At the moment
when he was flattering himself on being out
of range, a shell burst close beside the
machine, bespattering it with bullets and
putting the engine out of action.

Rolfe had seen cavalry galloping in their
direction.  The sudden descent would
apprise the enemy of what had happened.
Whether in ten minutes or in twenty, there
was no doubt that the arrival of the Germans
would place the airmen in a tight corner.

The first thought of the trooper is for his
horse.  The airman is concerned for the state
of his aeroplane.  It was not till long
afterwards that Rolfe and Burton discovered
that they, too, had not come off unscathed.
Luckily it was only Rolfe's sword-hilt that
had been shattered, not his groin; while
Burton examined with a wondering curiosity
two neat black holes in the loose sleeve of
his overalls.

It did not occur to either of them that
there was at least plenty of time to slip
away and hide before the Germans came
up.  Their instinct was to save the
aeroplane--a hopeless proposition, one would
have thought.

Along the road from the village, a quarter
of a mile away, half the population was
already speeding to the scene.  The half,
alas! was now the whole.  There were
women old and young, boys and girls, old
men and men long past their prime; but
there was no male person from seventeen
to fifty except the village idiot, who flung
his arms about as he ran, making inarticulate
noises.

"Hang it all!" Burton ejaculated.  "A
crowd like this will dish any chance we might
have had."

The crowd suddenly parted; the men
doffed their hats, the women bobbed, as they
made way for a horseman.  It was an old
straight figure, with short snow-white hair
and a long grizzled moustache.  He cantered
through the throng, turned into the field
on which the aeroplane lay, and reined up
before the Englishmen.

.. _`"You have had an accident"`:

.. figure:: images/img-067.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "You have had an accident"

   "You have had an accident"

"You have had an accident, messieurs?"
he said, raising his hat.

"Worse than that, monsieur," replied
Rolfe, in fluent French.  "The Germans
have hit us; the machine is useless; they
are on our track."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Frenchman.  Then,
turning to the crowd who had flocked up
behind him and stood gaping around, he
spoke in quick, staccato phrases, in a tone
of command.  "Back to your houses, my
good women.  Take the children.  These
gentlemen are of our brave ally.  You men,
drag the aeroplane to the inn.  Bid Froment
lift the trap-door of his cellar ready to let
the machine down.  Some of you smooth
away the tracks behind it.  Quick!  You,
Guignet, post yourself on the mound yonder
and watch for the Germans.  The inn cellar
is large, messieurs; there will be plenty of
room.  As to yourselves----"

The wrinkles of his aged face deepened.

"Ah, I have it!" he exclaimed.  Turning
to Rolfe, he went on: "You are an English
officer, monsieur; that says itself.  You
have observations to report.  Take my horse;
it is not mine, but borrowed from one of my
tenants; my own are with the army.  There
is no other in the village.  It will serve you."

"Thank you, monsieur," said Rolfe, as
the old man dismounted.  "In the interests
of our forces----"

"Hasten, monsieur," the old man
interrupted.  "Guignet waves his arms.  He
has seen the Germans.  As for you, monsieur----"

"I will go to the inn," said Burton.

"My château is at your service, monsieur,
but I fear it will prove an unsafe refuge.  A
haystack, or a barn----"

"I must stay by the aeroplane, monsieur;
get it repaired if possible."

The old man shrugged.  Guignet came up.

"The Bosches have taken the wrong road,
monsieur le marquis," he said.  "They are
riding, ma foi! how quickly, towards old
Lumineau's farm."

"That gives you more time," said the old
gentleman to Burton.  "Pray use it to save
yourself.  They will not be long discovering
their mistake.  Adieu!  I salute in you
your brave nation."

Bowing, he hurried away across the fields
towards a large château that reared itself
among noble trees half a mile distant.
Burton followed the crowd towards the
village inn.

"A fine old fellow!" he thought, "but he
doesn't know the Germans if he supposes
that the wine-cellar will be a safe place.  I
must find somewhere better than that."

He overtook the men before they reached
the village.  Passing the ancient church, an
idea occurred to him.

"Is there a crypt?" he asked.

"Parfaitement, monsieur," a man replied.

"Halt a minute."

He hastened to the priest's house adjoining,
at the door of which stood the curé in
his biretta and long soutane.  A minute's
conversation settled the matter.

"It is a good cause, monsieur," said the
curé.  "Direct our friends."

Superintended by Burton, the men wheeled
the machine through the great door into the
church.  While Burton rapidly unscrewed
the planes, willing hands opened up the
floor, and in a quarter of an hour the
aeroplane was lowered into the crypt.

"Is there an engineer in the village?"
Burton asked.

"Mais non, monsieur, but there is Boitelet,
the smith--a clever fellow, monsieur.  You
should have seen him set monsieur le
capitaine's automobile to rights.  Boitelet is
your man."

Burton hurried to the smithy.  Boitelet,
a shaggy giant of fifty years or so,
accompanied him back to the church.

"Ah ça!" he exclaimed on examining
the engine.  "I can repair it, yes; but I
must go for material to the town, ten miles
away.  It will be a full day's work, and what
is monsieur to do, with the Bosches at hand?"

Burton thought quickly.

"Make me your assistant," he said after
a minute or two.  "I'll strip off my overalls
and clothes; lend me things--a shirt and
apron.  A little more grease and dirt will
disguise me."

"But monsieur is young," said the smith.
"All our young men are at the war.  The
Bosches will make you prisoner--shoot you,
perhaps."

"An awkward situation, truly," said
Burton, rubbing a greasy hand over his face.
Suddenly he remembered the half-witted
stripling among the crowd.  Could he feign
idiocy as an explanation of his presence in
the village?  He could mop and mow, but
nothing could banish the gleam of
intelligence from his eyes.  And his tongue!--he
spoke French fairly well, but his accent
would inevitably betray him to any German
who chanced to be a linguist.

"There is only one thing," he cried.  "I
must pretend to be deaf and dumb.  Tell
everybody, will you?"

"It is clever, monsieur, that idea of
yours," said the smith, laughing.  "Yes;
you are Jules le sourd-muet, burning to
fight, but rejected because you could never
hear the word of command.  But you must be
careful, monsieur; a single slip, and--voilà!"

He shrugged his shoulder expressively.

"The Bosches!  The Bosches!" screamed
a group of frightened children, rushing up
the street.

The people fled into their houses and shut
the doors.  Only the curé and the smith were
visible, the latter standing at his door leaning
on his hammer, with an angry frown upon
his swarthy face.  Within the smithy Burton
was making a rapid change of dress.  He
rolled up his own clothes and equipment and
threw them into a corner behind a heap of
old iron, and donned the dirty outer garments
hurriedly provided by the smith.  After a
moment's hesitation he ferreted out his
revolver case from the bundle, and slipped
the revolver inside his blouse.

"If they search me, I'm done for," he
thought.  "But they would shoot the smith
if they found the thing here, so it's as broad
as it is long.  The case must go up the
chimney."

Then, completely transformed, he came
to the door in time to see a troop of the
Death's Head Hussars gallop up the street.

They reined up at the door of the smithy.

"Now, you dog, answer me," said the
major in command.  "And tell the truth,
or I'll cut your tongue out.  Have you seen
an aeroplane hereabout?"

"Oui da, mon colonel," replied the smith,
with an ironical courtesy that delighted
Burton.  "I did see an aeroplane, it might
be an hour ago.  It came down close to
those poplars yonder, but rose in a minute
or two and sailed away to the west."

"Go and see if he is telling the truth,"
said the officer to two of his men.  "And you,
smith, look to my horse's shoes.  Who is
this young fellow?  A deserter? a coward?"

"Oh, he's brave enough, mon colonel," the
smith answered.  "But the poor wretch is
deaf and dumb, a sore trouble to himself and
his friends.  You may shout, and he will
not hear you; and as to asking for his
dinner, he can't do it.  I only employ him
out of compassion."

The officer glanced at Burton, who was
trying to assume that pathetically eager
expression, that busy inquiry of the eyes,
which characterises deaf mutes.

"If he were a German we'd make him
shoot, deaf or not," said the major.  "You
French are too weak.  Well?"

The troopers had returned, and sat their
horses rigidly at the salute.

"Without doubt an aeroplane descended
there, Herr Major," one of them reported,
"and it flew up again, for there are no more
tracks."

"It is not worth while continuing the
chase.  Night is coming on.  Quarter
yourselves in the village--and keep the people
quiet.  No one is to leave his house."

The troopers saluted and rode off, leaving
a captain, two lieutenants, and four orderlies
with the major.

"Look alive, smith," cried that officer, in
the domineering tone evidently habitual with
him.  "Are the shoes in good order?"

The smith turned up the hoofs one after
another, and pronounced them perfectly shod.

"Very well; if any of the troopers' horses
need shoeing, see that it is done promptly, or
it will be the worse for you.  Now for the
château, gentlemen; monsieur le marquis
will be delighted to entertain us."

There was a look upon his face that Burton
could not fathom--an ugly smile that made
him shiver.  The horsemen rode away, and
Boitelet, the smith, spat upon the ground.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   II

.. vspace:: 2

"Come inside, monsieur," murmured the
smith, glancing round to see that no German
was within hearing.  Then he threw up his
hands and groaned.

"He is an insolent hound," said Burton,
sympathetically.

"Ah, monsieur, it is not that; all these
Prussians are brutes.  I fear for monsieur le
marquis."

"Who is the marquis?  He has a soldierly look."

"He was a fine soldier, monsieur.  Every
Frenchman knows his name.  In the army
he was plain General du Breuil; here in his
own country, where we love him, we give
him his true title, that has come to him
from the days of long ago.  Ah! there is
great trouble for him.  I know that man."

"The major?"

"Major he may be; spy he was.  It is
clear.  Listen, monsieur.  Some three years
ago, before monsieur le marquis retired from
the army, he had in his service a secretary,
said to be an Alsatian, very useful to
monsieur, who was compiling his memoirs.  One
day he was dismissed, none of us knew why.
Monsieur le marquis had discovered
something, no doubt.  There was a violent scene
at the château.  Monsieur's son, Captain du
Breuil, kicked the secretary down the steps.
He came into the village, hired a *calèche* to
drive him to the station, and departed.  We
have seen no more of him until this day.
He is the major."

"You are sure?"

"It is certain, monsieur.  He was then
clean shaven, and now wears a moustache,
but I know the scar on his cheek."

"And you fear he will insult the marquis?"

"Worse than that, monsieur.  A few days
ago monsieur le capitaine, brave soldier like
his father, was wounded in action only a
mile or two away, when our gallant
cuirassiers charged the Bosches and drove them
helter-skelter from their trenches.  He was
found on the field by old Guignet, and carried
secretly to the château, and there he lies,
horribly hurt by shrapnel."

"And now they will make him prisoner?"

"That would be bad enough, but I fear
worse.  The Bosches are brutal to all.  What
must we expect from a man who has a
grudge to pay off, and finds his enemy
helpless in his clutches?  The major will not
forgive his kicking."

"It's a bad look-out, certainly," said
Burton.  "I like your old general; he came
to our help so quickly.  But what about
my engine?"

"Ah, oui, monsieur, it is a pity.  I dare
not leave the village now.  The Bosches
passed quickly through here in their retreat
a few days ago; I did not expect to see
their ugly faces again.  You must wait,
monsieur.  Come into my house, and share
our soup.  If God pleases, the hounds will
go again to-morrow."

Burton accepted the good man's offer of
hospitality, and shared a simple meal with
him, and his wife, and two wide-eyed children
who gazed with interest at the stranger.

When the meal was nearly finished, the
smith suddenly exclaimed--

"Ah! here comes old Pierre, with a
German.  Have a care, monsieur.
Remember you are deaf and dumb."

Looking out of the window into the
darkling street, Burton saw a bent old man
tottering along by the side of one of the
orderlies who had recently ridden away.

"They are not coming here, Dieu merci!"
said the smith at his elbow.  "They are going
to the butcher's.  These Germans eat like hogs."

"Who is the old man?" Burton asked.

"Servant of monsieur le marquis,
monsieur.  They have grown old together.  There
is no other left in the château.  Some are at
the war; the rest fled, maids and men, when
the Germans came before.  Ah! it is sad
for monsieur and madame in their old age,
and their son lying wounded, too."

The old serving-man passed from the
butcher's to the baker's, and thence to
other shops, with the orderly always at his
side.  Soon the old man was staggering
under a load of purchases.  He faltered and
stopped, and the orderly shouted at him,
and threatened him with his sword.  Burton's
blood boiled.  He would have liked to catch
the German by the neck and shake him until
he howled for mercy.

.. _`The German way`:

.. figure:: images/img-078.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The German way

   The German way

Then an idea struck him.  If he offered to
help the laden old man he would make some
return for the general's kindness; perhaps he
might be of some further service in the
château.  He made the suggestion to the smith.

"It is madness, monsieur.  You would
put your head into the lion's mouth."

"What more natural than that a deaf
mute should earn a sou by using his muscles?
Arrange it, my friend."

"They say you English are mad, monsieur,"
said the smith with a shrug.  "A la
bonne heure!  But you will get more kicks
than sous."

"Make an opportunity to tell the old man
that I am deaf and dumb, and that he is to
pretend he knows me.  He must inform his
master and mistress also.  Will he be discreet?"

"He will be anything you please for the
sake of monsieur le marquis.  Come, then,
monsieur."

They left the house, and came upon the
scene just as the orderly had terrorised the
old man into making another attempt to
carry his burden.  The smith soon discovered
that the orderly knew no French.  He
arranged the matter by signs, pointing to
Burton's mouth and ears, and indicating
that he was muscularly strong.  At the
same time he spoke rapidly in French to
old Pierre.

"Ah, bon, bon!" said the old man.  "I
understand perfectly.  Be sure I will tell the
master.  Monsieur may rely upon me."

Burton shouldered more than half the
load, and set off for the château side by side
with Pierre, the orderly following.


.. vspace:: 3

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   III

.. vspace:: 2

The Château du Breuil had been luckier
than many similar country houses that stood
in the line of the German advance.  Whether
by accident or a rare considerateness, it had
not been shelled, and the officer who had last
quartered himself there, though a German,
was also a gentleman.  It stood, a noble
building, in its little park, whole and intact
as the first marquis built it in the reign of
Henri Quatre.

At either end was a projecting wing of two
stories, the wings being connected by the
long one-storied building that contained the
living-rooms.  Burton found the part of deaf
mute irksome; he wished to question old
Pierre as to the quarters in which the
Germans had disposed themselves.  But he
perforce kept silence, listening to a
fragmentary dialogue in German between the
orderly and Pierre, who, as he afterwards
learnt, had been valet to the marquis
when the latter, as a young man, was
military attaché to the French embassy at Berlin.

They arrived at the kitchen entrance.
Pierre went in first, and at once addressed
an old white-haired lady who was stuffing
a chicken at the kitchen table.  He spoke
so rapidly and in so low a tone that Burton
could not follow his words, but he gathered
their purport when the old lady glanced at
him, and signed to him to lay down his
load on the table.

"Madame la marquise has understood,"
he thought.

The orderly waited awhile; then, seeing
that the lady had set Pierre and the deaf
mute to pare potatoes and turnips, he went
off to report that preparations for dinner
were at last in train.

"A thousand thanks, monsieur," whispered
the marquise when the German's back
was turned.  "It was good of you to help
old Pierre.  But, believe me, it is unwise
of you to stay.  If you should be
discovered----  If you made a slip----"

"Madame, to run risks is my daily work,"
said Burton.  "I am glad to serve you--even
in the capacity of kitchen-maid."

The marquise smiled wearily.

"We are playing strange parts, God help
us!" she said.  "I am in great distress,
monsieur.  The German officer----"

"Boitelet has told me about him,
madame," said Burton.  "Pardon: I
interrupt; but we may have little time.  Will
you tell me what has happened?"

"My poor son!  They dismissed our good
doctor who was attending him; they carried
him, ill as he is, from his own room to one
of the servants' rooms, and there they have
locked him in with my husband.  It is on
the floor above us.  They have taken our
rooms in the other wing for themselves.
They have ransacked the wine-cellar, and
loaded the table in the dining-room with
my poor husband's finest vintage.  But it
is not what they have done but what they
may do that fills me with dread.  That
horrible man----"

Old Pierre, who was standing near the
door, at this moment put his finger quickly
to his lips.  When the orderly entered, the
marquise was turning the chicken on the
spit, and Burton was cleaning the knives.

"The old frau is slow," said the German
to Pierre.  "The officers are growing
impatient.  She had better hurry, or there
will be trouble."

"Madame la marquise will serve the
dinner when it is ready," said Pierre, quietly.

"Teufel!  You are insolent," cried the
orderly, striking the old man across the face.

Burton smothered the exclamation that
rose to his lips.  The marquise flashed at
the German such a look of indignant scorn
that he was abashed, and went out muttering
sullenly.

"The visit of that horrible man," the old
lady went on, ignoring the underling's
brutality, "is not accidental, I am sure.  He
contemplates vengeance.  He was dismissed
with contumely, and I fear he will make
my poor son pay."

Burton could only murmur his sympathy.
He watched with admiration the quick, deft
actions of the marquise, who prepared the
dinner as skilfully as her own cook could
have done.

There was no opportunity for further
conversation.  The orderly returned, and lolled
in a chair, commenting on the old lady's
movements in offensive tones that made
Burton tingle.  When the dishes were ready,
the marquise told Pierre to carry them in.

"No, no, old witch," said the orderly,
with a chuckle.  "The Herr Major is very
particular; she must serve him herself."

Pierre translated this to his mistress,
protesting that she must not submit to such
indignity.

"Eh bien, mon ami," she said, "they
cannot hurt me more.  For my son's sake
I will be cook and bonne in one.  Carry the
dishes; I will show them how a marquise
waits at table."

Burton assisted the old man to convey
the dishes to the dining-room, following the
marquise.  At their entrance there was a
shout of laughter.  Four officers sat at the
table--the major, his captain, and two
moon-faced lieutenants.

"Where are your cap and apron, wench?"
cried the major.  "Go and put them on at
once.  And make that dumb dog there
understand that he is not to bring his dirty
face inside; he can hand the things to you
through the hatch."

The marquise compressed her lips, and,
without replying, returned to the kitchen,
and came back in a maid's cap and apron.
What was meant for indignity and insult
seemed to Burton, watching from the hatch,
to enhance the lady's dignity.  She moved
about the table with the quickness of a
waiting maid and the proud bearing of a
queen, paying no heed to the coarse
pleasantries of the Germans, or to their
complaints of the food, of which, nevertheless,
they devoured large quantities.

"A tough fowl, this," said the major,
"as old as the old hen herself."

"Ha, ha!" laughed his juniors, in whom
the champagne they had already drunk
induced a facile admiration of the major's wit.

As the meal progressed, and the Germans'
potations deepened, their manners went from
bad to worse.  They commenced an orgy of
plate-smashing, flinging pellets of damp bread
at one another and at pictures on the walls.
Burton's fingers tingled; from his place at
the hatch he could have shot them one by
one with the revolver that lay snug in his
blouse.  But he contained his anger.  The
four orderlies were in an adjacent room; the
village was filled with the troopers; and
hasty action would probably involve the
destruction of the château and the massacre
of its long-suffering inhabitants.

Presently they called for coffee, and the
major went to the marquis's cigar cupboard,
promising his subordinates the best smoke
of their lives.  The champagne seemed to
have affected him less than the other
members of the party, and Burton gained the
impression that he was holding himself in
for the accomplishment of some sinister purpose.

Dismissing the marquise with a curt and
contemptuous "Gehen Sie aus," he called in
an orderly to lock her in the upper room
with her husband and son.

"Now get your own suppers and turn
in," he said.  "You may be disturbed; the
sneaking Englishmen are somewhere in the
neighbourhood; so keep a man on guard to
give warning, and post a sentry in the
corridor.  Send Vossling to me."

His own orderly entered.  The major
opened a fresh bottle, and passed it round
the table; then with a "Verzeihen Sie mir"
to his companions, he rose, and took the
man into the passage out of earshot.  Burton
had slipped back into the kitchen; the
passage appeared to be vacant.

A few minutes later old Pierre, his face
blanched to the colour of chalk, staggered
into the kitchen.

"What is the matter?" asked Burton, alarmed.

He poured out a little brandy, and held
the glass to the old man's pale and quivering
lips.  Pierre gulped the liquid, looked
around with horror in his eyes, and signed
to Burton to throw the door wide open.

"They must not know, monsieur," he
said in a whisper, tottering to a chair.

"What is the matter?" Burton repeated.

"I was in the passage, I heard them
coming.  They are not there, monsieur?"

"No, there is no one," said Burton,
looking out through the open door.

"I slipped into the dark ante-room, monsieur,
and hid behind the tall clock.  They
came in."

"Who?"

"The major--Schwikkard, the accursed
spy, and his man.  I heard what they said.
'The old marquis is a bitter enemy of
Germany,' said Schwikkard.  'He fought
against us in '70.  He is a dangerous man.
Now, if the west wing of the château caught
fire--*caught fire*, you understand--say, in the
early morning.' ... They are not there,
monsieur?"

"No.  Go on."

"'Caught fire!' he said.  Mon Dieu!
'In the early morning--not too early, for
that would disturb the sleep of some good
Germans; but not too late, for that would
bring the whole village here.  If the west
wing were burned, and all in it'--*all in it*,
monsieur!--'it would be a good thing for
Germany.  Understand,' he said, 'it will
be an accident.  We should all try to put
the fire out, but we should not succeed,
naturally.  These old places burn well.  You
understand?  Well then, good-night--and
see that you don't call me too soon--versteht
sich!'  The orderly chuckled, monsieur.
Mon Dieu!  Monsieur et madame, le pauvre
capitaine!  Ah ciel!  Quelle horreur!"


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   IV

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The old man sank back in his chair, half
fainting.  Burton gave him more brandy.
Aghast at the atrocious villainy of the
scheme--incredible but for the crimes which
had already stained the German arms--he
was for the moment unable to think of
anything but the scene he saw in
imagination--flames illuminating the dawn, eating
away the staircase, enclosing the three
helpless people above in a fiery furnace.

The old man groaned aloud.

"Take care!" whispered Burton.  "Tell
me, are there arms in the house?"

"Why, yes, monsieur; a rifle and two
revolvers, in the captain's room--well hidden,
par exemple!"

"Is there a back staircase to the upper rooms?"

"By that door yonder, monsieur," replied
Pierre, pointing to a small door in the corner.

"If anybody comes and asks about me,
say that I have gone home.  Pull yourself
together for the sake of monsieur and madame."

"But, monsieur----"

"Chut!  The party is breaking up.
Listen!  They are going to their rooms in
the east wing.  Courage, my friend!"

He extinguished the oil lamp, pressed
Pierre's hand, and stole noiselessly through
the door in the corner.  It opened to a
narrow staircase.  At the head of this there
was a passage leading between bedrooms
to the main staircase farther along.  There
was no lamp in the passage, but a faint
shine through a skylight lit dimly its farther
end.  And just as Burton gained the top
step, and peered cautiously round the edge
of the wall, he was amazed to see Major
Schwikkard unlock a door on the left, and
enter the room.

"Go into the next room," came the curt
command in French.

"Monsieur, I cannot leave my son,"
protested the marquise.  "Have you no
humanity at all?"

"Gabble is useless.  Go into the next
room, and take the old man with you.  Or
shall I shoot him before your eyes?"

The two old people came into the passage,
followed by the major, who hustled them
into the adjoining apartment, locked them
in, and returned.  Burton, dreading lest he
intended to proceed at once to extremes
with the wounded man, and resolved at any
cost to prevent it, darted on tip-toe along
the passage to the room in which the marquis
and his wife were shut up, silently unlocked
the door, and whispering, "Courage,
monsieur et madame: await my return," he left
them, and went to the next door.  It was closed.

Through it he heard the German's voice.
It was no time to shirk risks.  Grasping the
handle firmly, he turned it, and gently
pushed the door, little by little, until he
could see into the room.

The German was seated on a chair by the
bedside, his back to the door, ostentatiously
cutting a fresh cigar.  Beside him was a
small cabinet with medicines.  On it he
had laid his revolver, out of the reach of
the young soldier on the bed.  They
presented a strange contrast, the blond, bulky
German, red-faced, brimming with physical
energy, and the Frenchman, whose eyes,
feverishly bright, gleamed out of pale sunken
cheeks, and whose emaciated hands lay idle
on the coverlet.  His dark head propped on
the pillow, he lay perfectly still, corpse-like
save for his burning eyes.

"An excellent cigar!" said the German.
"Who should know that better than I?
Once more I am indebted to your amiable
parents for their hospitality.  I make my
acknowledgments.  Madame la marquise has
been most attentive; she looked charming,
if a little faded, in cap and apron; and you
would have been delighted to see her
handing the plates."

The invalid's fingers twitched; a flush
mantled his cheeks.  He tried to lift his
head, but it sank back weakly upon the
pillow.  Burton felt that the German was
watching his victim with malicious
satisfaction.  The shaft had struck home.

"Don't rise, don't rise, my dear sir.  I
realise how little our good German shells
suit the constitution of you Frenchmen.
You have no stamina, you know: a puff"--he
blew out a cloud of smoke--"and you are gone!

"You scarcely hoped, perhaps, to see me
again after our last parting at the gates of
your hospitable château?  You find it,
perhaps, a strange chance that brings me again
beneath this roof?  Yet perhaps it is not so
strange after all, for, helpless though I was
at the time, I vowed that some day or other
I would return.  And thus we meet, sooner
than I could have hoped--our parts
somewhat changed.  I was then a helpless
German in France; you are now a helpless
Frenchman in what is going to be Germany.
When you were up and I was down, you
heaped upon me insults and abuse, and
struck me--me, a well-born Prussian!--because
I did my duty to my country.  Did
you reflect?  Did it ever cross your French
mind that a German, a Junker, a soldier, a
man of culture, would not brook the insolent
perversity of one of your decadent race?
Now I am up and you are down, and we
can square accounts.  You are to learn what
it is to strike a German.  Of this your
château, of you and the vile French brood
within it, there shall not remain to-morrow
aught but ashes.  That is what I have
promised myself these three years.  I will pay
my vow!"

During this speech, hissed out in a tone of
the bitterest rancour, the German had held
his cigar between finger and thumb, lifting
his hand now and then to emphasise his
words.  Perceiving that it had gone out, he
cut another, lit it, and lolled insolently in
his chair, his long legs stretched beneath the
bed, as if gloating over his intended victim.
The young captain had not uttered a word.
No change of countenance revealed his
feelings, or so much as hinted that he had heard
the German's tirade.  His eyes appeared to
look past his tormentor, but nothing in their
expression warned Schwikkard of what he saw.

There was a brief interval of silence; then
the German drew up his legs.

"Sleep well!" he said.  "I assure you
your sleep shall be a long one!"

He flicked the ash of his cigar into one of
the medicine glasses, and was about to rise,
when a hand shot over his shoulder, and
grasped his revolver.  Turning on his chair
with a start, he flinched as his right ear
touched the cold muzzle of a second revolver
which Burton pointed at him.

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   AN INTERRUPTION

"Sit down!" said Burton, quietly, in
French.  "If you make the slightest sound,
I will shoot you on the spot."

The German's face blanched under its
sun-tan.  A muzzle to the right, a muzzle to the
left, each within a few inches of his head!
Speechless, he sank down into his chair, and
the cigar fell upon the floor.


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   V

.. vspace:: 2

Covering the shrinking German with the
revolvers, Burton glanced round the room,
and moved towards an electric bell-push in
one of the walls.

"Does it communicate with the kitchen?"
he asked the wounded man, who nodded--weakness
and the thrill of emotion bereft
him of speech.

Burton rang the bell--a single sharp ring.
In a few moments Pierre appeared.  The
expression of foreboding dread in his eyes
gave way to consternation, joy, eagerness,
in turn.

"Some stout cord, Pierre," said Burton,
"and shut the door behind you.  My
revolver may go off, and it would be a pity
to disturb your master's guests."

The irony was lost upon Major Schwikkard.
The turning of the tables seemed to
have completely unnerved him.  It is,
perhaps, not true that all bullies are cowards
at heart; but a man is tested by adversity.

Pierre soon returned with the cord, and
in a few minutes he trussed the German
securely, Burton standing over him with a
revolver.

"Now a gag!" Burton said.  "Take one
of those strips of linen; monsieur le capitaine
will spare us one of his bandages."

At this the German found voice at last.

"You--you treacherous----"

"Not so loud, monsieur l'espion!" said
Burton, fingering the revolver.

The German gurgled.

"You will--all be--shot," he gasped, "as
soon as they discover----"

"Allons!" exclaimed Pierre, thrusting
the gag firmly between his jaws, "it is
done, monsieur."

"There is an unoccupied room, Pierre?"
asked Burton.

"Assuredly, monsieur, at the end of the
passage."

"Then we will take him there, and tie
him down on the bed.  His friends will no
doubt miss him in the morning, and release
him--perhaps about breakfast time!"

Such was Burton's contempt for the man
that he felt no touch of compunction at the
effect his words produced.  Pierre and he
were carrying the German between them.
His staring eyes proclaimed an agony of
terror.  At dawn the wing was to be fired.
He had carefully provided against premature
discovery.  His friends would be still sleeping
off their liquor.  He saw himself lost.

He writhed, his lips worked, but the
inexorable gag prevented articulation.  The
two carried him into the farther room, laid
him face upwards on the bed, and bound
him firmly to the four posts.  The
moonlight, streaming through the window, threw
a ghastly pallor upon his countenance.  His
eyes pled for mercy, and Burton, after a few
moments' hesitation, relented.  If the
terror-stricken wretch would show any spark of
good feeling, he would relieve his fears.  He
loosed the gag.

Schwikkard gulped, moistened his lips,
and spoke gaspingly.

"You have me in your power ... but
your revenge will recoil on you....
Release me; I will leave the château at once....
I will agree to any terms....  You
shall go unharmed."

"You would bribe me?" answered
Burton, coldly, disgusted that the man had
said no word of regret.  "You have given
us no reason to believe that your word is
more to be trusted than any other German's.
We are not going to kill you, in spite of your
threats to a helpless gentleman and your
treatment of Madame.  Your threats,
perhaps, were not meant in earnest----"

"No, no," cried the German eagerly.
"It was only--only a joke."

"Ah! such a joke is in very bad taste, so
we will leave you to think it over."

Remorselessly he replaced the gag, and
they left him to his reflections.

Returning to the invalid's room, they
consulted in whispers.  The captain had closed
his eyes.  Full of admiration for his
self-control in giving no sign of having observed
the stealthy approach from the door, Burton
hoped that the wounded man might be
strong enough to bear removal from the
château to the curé's house, and thence to
the British lines.

"Can we move him?" he asked Pierre.

"Ah, no, monsieur," replied the old man,
bending over the bed and gazing with poignancy
of affection at the haggard face.  "It
would kill him."

Burton pondered, while Pierre spoke gently
to his master's son and poured wine between
his lips.  The captain's eyes were eloquent
of gratitude.

"There is only one thing to be done," said
Burton at last.  "Our army is slowly
advancing: we must hold the château until it
comes."

"But, monsieur, it is impossible!" cried
the old man.  "The Bosches are in the
house: they fill the village."

"True; but this wing is defensible against
anything except artillery, and we have a
valuable hostage in the major.  Let us see
what monsieur le marquis says."

They went to the room where they had
left the old general and his wife.  Burton
explained to the former what he had already
done, and what he proposed to do.  There
was a gleam in the old soldier's eyes.

"Ma foi, monsieur, la bonne idée!" he
cried.  "It makes me young again."  Then
he glanced at his wife, and his face was full
of trouble.  "Chérie," he said, "there will
be danger.  It will be no place for you.
Will you not go to the curé's?  It is dark:
Pierre would lead you across the fields."

"Mon ami," replied the old lady firmly,
taking the general's hand, "my place is
with you and with Fernand.  Is it for
nothing that I am a soldier's wife?"

The marquis pressed her hand; his eyes
were moist.

"Monsieur, it shall be," he said, simply,
turning to Burton.

"Will you come with me then, monsieur?"
said Burton.  "Pierre, bring food
and candles from the kitchen, also a chisel
if you have one."

The marquise returned to her son's room;
Burton, accompanied by the general, made
a rapid tour of the floor.  The head of the
kitchen staircase came to the passage near
the door of the servant's bedroom in which
the captain was now laid.  The window of
the room, overlooking the parterres in front
of the house, was opposite the door.  There
were two doors, one on each side of the
passage, opening into rooms both of which
communicated with the bedroom.  One of
these had been temporarily occupied by
monsieur and madame; in the other, Major
Schwikkard was confined.  At the farther
end of the passage was a door opening on to
a landing, from which the grand staircase
descended to the hall below.

The general's experienced eye marked the
possibilities of the situation.

"They will come up the grand staircase,
monsieur," he said.  "This door is our
outer defence.  We must barricade it.  If
they fire through it, their shots will fly
straight along the passage to the door of
my son's room.  They will hardly penetrate
that and the barricade that we shall raise
behind it.  The Germans will break down
this door and come into the passage.  We
must then defend the rooms."

"And if they attack from the outside, monsieur?"

"The windows are shuttered.  You observed
that, and sent for a chisel--to loophole
the shutters?"

"That was my idea."

"It was good.  We must barricade the
shutters also in such a way that we can
approach the loopholes obliquely.  Their
Mauser bullets will easily penetrate the
shutters, although they are of oak."

"Here is Pierre.  We must be very quiet
and very quick; the sentry below will
wonder at the prolonged absence of his chief."

"Is there a sentry?"

"There was to be.  I will see."

He tip-toed to the head of the grand
staircase, and peeped over the rail.  One of
the orderlies was standing bolt upright
against the door.

The three men removed their boots, and
carried every portable piece of furniture to
the doors and windows, piling them one
upon another, and strutting them with
chairs, towel horses, and other small objects.
The chisel proved a useless tool for boring
the hard oak.  There was a fire in the
captain's room.  Burton made a poker red
hot, and with this burnt a few loopholes in
the shutters.  After nearly an hour's
strenuous work, carried on with extraordinary
noiselessness, the preparations were made.

The old marquis was now trembling with
excitement and fatigue.  His wife gave him
some wine, and, while he rested, Burton
looked to the weapons.  The German's
revolver and his own were full.  The marquise
brought out two more, a rifle, and
ammunition, from the depths of a cupboard.

There was now only to await events.  It
was nearly midnight.  How long would it
be before the sentry became uneasy at his
commander's absence?  With German
stolidity, and the Prussian soldier's fear of his
officer, he might never think of moving from
his post.  But after a time he would certainly
be relieved, and possibly a consultation
with the relief would lead to action.

As Burton sat nursing the rifle, he was
conscious of a smell of burning, distinct from
the smell caused by boring the wood.  Pierre
had been absent for some little time in the
room where the major lay.  He came through
the communicating door, followed by smoke.
Burton started up.

"Have they set the place on fire already?"
he asked.

"No, no, monsieur," the man replied,
with a strange smile.  "I was merely burning
some paper."

Thinking that there were perhaps some
documents which must not fall into the
Germans' hands, Burton asked no further
questions.  Once or twice again the same grim
smile appeared about the old servitor's lips,
and Burton concluded that he was pleased
at having accomplished a necessary task.

Two hours passed in almost silent waiting.
The only movements were those of the
marquise in tending her son.  Then, about
two o'clock, they heard some one try the
handle of the door at the end of the passage.
Burton had locked it.  In a moment there
was a tap at the door.  No one answered.
It was repeated, louder and more energetically.
Burton nodded to Pierre.

"What is it?" the man asked in German.

"The Herr Major; is he here?"

"Yes; he is resting; he must not be
disturbed."

Footsteps were heard receding.  The
sentry was apparently satisfied.

"We must give them warning some time
before dawn," said Burton, "otherwise the
man Vossling will carry out his orders, and
set fire to the staircase."

"Knowing that the major is in this
wing?" said the general.

"He may not know that.  On the other
hand he may.  Then he will suspect that
something is wrong.  In the one case, we
should be burnt alive; in the other, the
man would be uneasy and come to wake
the major.  But the longer we delay the
more chance of relief.  The sun rises at
about half-past six; the place was to be
fired before dawn.  How will the orderly
interpret his instructions?"

"It is a nice calculation," said the marquis,
who with renewed strength had recovered
his keenness.  "Will he wait until the
darkness begins to thin, or abstain from
setting up a rival to the sunlight?  I do
not know the German mind."

Time dragged for Burton.  The marquis
and his man dozed; the marquise, in the
intervals of her ministrations, read a book
of Hours.  The slow clock ticked on the
mantelshelf; three struck, and four.

At a little after four there was a loud
knock on the door.

"At last!" said Burton, half in relief,
half in misgiving.  The old men started
up, and grasped each a revolver.  The
lady put down her book and clasped her
hands on her lap, pressing her lips together
as if to shut in a cry.

"Who is there?" demanded Burton in French.

"Where is Major Schwikkard?" came
the answer.  An officer was speaking.

Burton saw that further concealment was useless.

"He is here," he called down the passage,
"a prisoner."

The German swore.

"You dogs!  You imbeciles!" he shouted,
shaking the door.  "Let me in.  What do
you mean by this buffoonery?  If it is
your trick, you white-headed old fool, you
shan't escape hanging because you were
once a soldier.  You and your man are
civilians in arms.  You shall die by inches.
Let me in, I say."

There was no reply.  The officer shook
the door again.

"Force it with your shoulder, Vossling,"
he said with an oath.

The door creaked, but the lock held.
Next moment there was a crash; he had
blown in the lock with a shot from his
revolver.  But the door banged against
the wardrobe placed behind it.  The
German swore again.  Then there was silence.
In a few minutes, several voices were heard.

"Remove this barricade, you old French
fools," said the captain, in a voice thick
with sleep, wine and rage, "or we will blow
the place to atoms."

"And Major Schwikkard?" said Burton, quietly.

"That is not an old man speaking," said
the captain to his companions.  "There
was no one else in the house except the old
hag and the wounded man."

"And the deaf mute," said one of the others.

"Potztausend!  If that dirty fellow has
played tricks on us I will crop his ears
and cut his tongue out.  Give them a taste."

Their revolvers spoke; three shots crashed
through the wood, flew along the passage,
through the open door opposite, and finally
embedded themselves in the shutter.  A
moment later Burton, stepping to the edge
of the doorway, lifted his rifle and fired.
There was a cry from beyond the barricaded
door, a volley of oaths, and a general
stampede for safety to the landing.

For a few minutes there was silence.
The marquise stroked her son's hot brow.
Then a fusillade burst through the door
and the stout barricade behind it.  The
bullets pattered on the shutters, but the
three men had stood back out of the line
of fire.  None of them was struck by a shot,
but a splinter of wood from the wardrobe
glanced off the inner door ami grazed
Pierre's cheek.  Again and again the
fusillade was repeated.  The defenders,
husbanding their ammunition, and careful not to
expose themselves, did not reply; they
waited in grim silence, to meet the enemy's
next move.

The failure of their efforts enraged and
nonplussed the Germans.  Warned by the
shot that had wounded one of them, they
made no attempt to storm the barricade.
There was a short interval, and they were
heard discussing the situation in low tones.
The result was made clear in a few minutes.
Bullets began to crash through the shutters
to all the windows.

"They have brought up men from the
village, and surrounded the wing," said
the general.

"We shall be in no danger," said Burton.
"Firing from the ground, their shots will
go through the ceilings."

In a short time this became apparent
to the assailants.  The attack ceased for
a little; then, through the window of the
room in which the major lay, bullets flew
horizontally across the room, a few inches
above his head.

"They will kill their own officer!" cried
Burton.  "We can't leave him helpless in
his present position."

"He deserves no pity," said the general.
"Still, we are not Germans.  My camp bed
is there, lower than the bed he is on, and
easily moved.  Let us place him on that."

"Mon Dieu!  It is the bed you slept on
in '70, monsieur," cried Pierre.

"What then, my friend?"

"It is sacrilege, monsieur; it is treason
to France--pardon, mon maitre, I should
not have said that, but it would tear my
heart to see a German on that bed."

"Let that be our *revanche*," said the
general, quietly.

"I hope a German bullet may find him,"
muttered the old man, as the others released
the stiff figure upon the bed.  They kept
on their knees to avoid the flying bullets,
and so transferred the German from the
larger bedstead to the low single bed on
which the general had made the campaign
of '70.  They placed it against the wall in
the corner near the window, out of danger.
Leaving Pierre on his knees to fire up if any
German tried to enter the room through
the window, they returned to the invalid's bedroom.

"Strange that they should be so reckless
of killing their own officer," remarked Burton.

"They are callous ruffians," the general
replied.  "Besides, it is war; one life is of
little account.  That is what we all have to
remember.  The individual life is nothing;
the cause is all."

The passage and the rooms were filling
with suffocating fumes.  The noise of shots,
of splintering wood, of shouting men, was
incessant.  Hitherto, save for the single
rifle shot fired by Burton, the defenders
had not used their weapons.  At the end
of the passage they could not have escaped
the hail of bullets; from the side doors
they could not take direct aim.  But the
attack had now become so violent that
reprisals must be attempted, or the defences
would be utterly shattered.  An idea came
suddenly to Burton.  Closing the door
leading to the sick man's room, so that the
passage was completely dark, he passed into
the next room, shoved a table through the
doorway, set a chair upon it, and waiting
until there was a slight lull in the attack,
climbed upon the chair.

Standing thus above the enemy's line of
fire, and in darkness, he was able to see,
through the gaps made in the barricade and
the door, a faint light filtering through
from the lamp in the hall below.  A crowd
of Germans had come quite close to the door,
and were thrusting their rifles through the
jagged rents in the panels.  Burton took
careful aim at one of them, fired, and a yell
proclaimed that his bullet had gone home.
A second shot claimed its victim.  Then
the enemy, cursing with rage, rushed back
from the door, and for a time continued
firing from the angles of the landing.

Meanwhile the window at which Pierre
was left had been driven in, shutter and all,
by repeated blows of an axe wielded by a
man mounted on a ladder.  The old man
fired just as the German was stepping from
the ladder to the window-sill.  Shot through
the heart, the intruder fell headlong.  None
of his comrades was bold enough to emulate
his daring.

The general had been chafing at his
inability to take a positive part in the fight.
Stimulated by the success Burton had had
from his post of vantage, the old warrior's
Gallic spirit threw aside caution.  Slipping
into the passage, he was in the act of placing
another chair on the table when a bullet
fired from the angle on the landing struck
a brass bracket on the wall at his left,
rebounded from it, and buried itself with
a splinter of brass in the old man's arm.
He reeled.  Burton sprang down to assist
him, and carried him fainting into the
bedroom, where his wife received him into her
arms.

.. _`The marquis is hit`:

.. figure:: images/img-110.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The marquis is hit

   The marquis is hit

"Hard luck!" thought Burton, for the
shot that wounded the general was the
last to be fired for a considerable time.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VI

.. vspace:: 2

The enemy ceased firing, both within the
château and without.  Wondering what
their next move would be, Burton remained
heedfully on guard, rifle in hand.  Pierre,
overcome with grief at the collapse of his
master, was assisting the marquise to
restore him and to bind up his wound.

Presently the German's voice came through
the door.

"General du Breuil!"

"What do you want?" Burton called.

"You treacherous hound!  I have nothing
to say to you," cried the German, angrily.
"I speak to the general."

"The general deputes me to answer for
him.  If you will not speak to me, you will
go unanswered."

"Who are you?" the German asked with an oath.

"The general's deputy," replied Burton.

"That will not avail you," cried the officer,
sneeringly.  "I have sent to the village to
fetch that rascally smith who assisted your
imposture.  When he has told me who you
are, he shall be deaf and dumb for his last
minute in life."

Burton felt chill from top to toe.  He
had not thought of the peril in which his
stratagem might involve the smith.  The
Germans were capable of any enormity.
But he could do nothing--except gain time.
Would the British advance guard arrive
before all was lost?

"Well, if the general chooses to employ
a cur as his deputy, so be it," the German
went on.  "Like man, like master.  Take
this message to the general: If he does not
yield, I will fire the château."

"And if we surrender?" said Burton.

"We will deal with him as a soldier.
He will be tried by court-martial."

"On what charge?"

"That, having been a soldier, with no
excuse of ignorance of the laws of war, he,
as a civilian, resists the military power."

"And if he is found guilty?"

"His fate will lie in the discretion of the court."

"And his old servant?"

The German, anxious to gain his ends
without further fighting, hesitated, then
replied, equivocally--

"The court will decide."

"And myself?"

"The court will decide," replied the
officer, impatiently.

"Is that all?"

The German smote the door angrily.

"Your answer!" he cried.

"You will give us a few minutes for consultation?"

"Five minutes: no more."

Burton stood on his chair, holding his rifle.

"I heard it, monsieur," said the voice
of the marquise in an undertone behind
him.  "My poor husband is incapable of
speech.  We must leave all to you.  But
can we resist fire?"

"Madame, I seek to gain time.  We can
expect no mercy from the Germans.  There
is but one hope--that our army will arrive
in time.  If that hope fails----"

"Spare us fire, monsieur, I implore you.
It is frightful."

She wrung her hands piteously.

"Trust me, madame; hope, and pray," said Burton.

When the five minutes were up, the
German hailed him.  "Your answer--quickly."

"Monsieur le capitaine," said Burton,
suavely, "we cannot surrender yet.  We
should like to kill a few more Germans."

The officer let out a vicious oath.

   |  "Then roast!" he cried.  "You and the rest."

"Including your worthy commandant,
mon capitaine?  Don't forget him."

"You have murdered him."

"That is the explanation of their reckless
shooting," thought Burton.  He replied:
"Not at all.  We are not Germans."

"You lie!" cried the captain, whose
anger was rapidly getting the better of him.

"Did I not remind you, monsieur, that
we are not Germans?"

The officer was speechless with rage.
Burton imagined his quandary.  It would
be awkward for him if he set fire to the
château and burnt his superior.  His next
words showed his state of mind.

"You say Major Schwikkard is alive.  Prove it."

"Nothing easier, mon capitaine," said
Burton.  "You must give me a few minutes.
He is a heavy man."

He saw that there was nothing to lose,
possibly something to gain, by convincing
the German.  Slipping down from his perch,
he hurried to Pierre, who was kneeling at
his master's chair.

"Come with me," he said, and led him
into the room where the major lay gagged
and bound.  The bed was a light one.
They carried it to the window, and tilted
it on end.  Leaving Pierre to maintain it
in that position, Burton returned to the
chair, and kept silence until the captain
impatiently demanded his proofs.

"I must trouble you to descend and go
to the rear of the wing, monsieur," said
Burton.  "It is dark: no doubt you have
a flashlight?"

"We have; what then?  Do not play with me."

"Far from it, monsieur.  I am aware
of the gravity of your position.  Go down
to the garden at the rear, and look up at
the window that will then face you.  But do
not flash your light up until I give the word."

The German snarled under his breath.
Burton caught the sounds of a whispered
consultation at the stair-head.  A minute
or two later the officer called up from the
garden.  Burton withdrew the piled-up
furniture, opened the shutters, and helped
Pierre to lift the bed, tilted as it was, to
the window.  The major's form, stretched
upon it, somewhat resembled a mummy in a case.

"Now, monsieur!" Burton called.

The glaring light of an acetylene lamp was
thrown up towards the window.  It fell
on the major's face, which, ghastly in itself,
looked death-like in the glare.

"He is dead!" the captain shouted.

"Not at all--only afraid; he overheard
your amiable intentions.  We will
demonstrate."  He turned to Pierre, saying:
"Fetch some pepper."

"There is none upstairs, monsieur.  I
dare not go below."

"Some snuff?"

"Ah, oui! monsieur le marquis likes his
pinch.  A moment, monsieur."

He went into the bedroom, took a snuff-box
from his master's pocket, and returned.
Burton opened the box, took a large pinch
of snuff, and held it to the major's nose.
There was a slight but dramatic pause.
All was silent.  Then the major's features
became convulsed, and the silence was rent
by a resounding sneeze.

"Now, monsieur le capitaine," cried
Burton, "could a dead German sneeze like that?"

There were snarls of rage from below,
mingled, Burton thought, with suppressed
laughter from some of the troopers who had
gathered in the background behind their officers.

"With your good pleasure we will resume
our interesting conversation above," said Burton.

With Pierre he lowered the bed and
carried it back to its former position.  Then
he replaced the shutters.

"Another ten minutes gained," he thought.

The ten minutes were prolonged to fifteen.
The captain was consulting with his
subordinates.  Presently he called through the
door--

"Are you there?"

"Always at your service, monsieur."

"Seeing that Major Schwikkard is apparently
alive, we will permit you to surrender
on terms."

"What terms, monsieur?"

"You shall be allowed to pass through
the German lines."

"I should like to consult the general,
monsieur," said Burton, still talking to gain time.

"Five minutes."

"Let us say ten, monsieur," Burton
pleaded.  "It is, you will admit, a serious matter."

"Ten, then; not a minute more."

At the end of the ten minutes the captain
called for an answer.

"The general wishes to know, monsieur,
what guarantee he has for safety."

"The word of a German officer," snarled
the captain.  "Be quick!"

Waiting a minute or so, Burton said--

"The general has a little difficulty in
making up his mind--pardonable at his
age.  You give him another ten minutes,
monsieur?"

"Three; not a second more," cried the
German, completely hoodwinked by Burton's
tone, and unaware of the vital consideration
in Burton's mind--the return of Captain
Rolfe to head-quarters.

"Very well, monsieur.  I will bring the
general's answer in three minutes."

The marquise and Pierre were holding
their breath.  The same thought possessed
them both; to what lengths would this
audacious Englishman go?

The period elapsed; the captain called
peremptorily for an answer.

"The general, monsieur, has considered
your offer," said Burton, "and he feels
safer where he is."

At last the German's besotted intelligence
was penetrated by the suspicion that he had
been played with.  He poured out his venom
in a torrent of virulent abuse, snatched at
his revolver, and fired point-blank into the
darkness.  The bullet struck one of the legs
of Burton's chair, the chair broke under
him, and he fell with a crash.  The effect
of the shot, heard but not seen by the
Germans, was hailed by them with a shout
of triumph.  But Burton crawled into the
bedroom, with no worse injury than bruised
elbows and shins.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VII

.. vspace:: 2

Into the next few minutes were crowded,
as it seemed to Burton in reminiscence, the
events of hours.  Emboldened by the
supposed success of the captain's shot, the
Germans renewed the attack with great
violence and determination, both within
and without.  Repeated onslaughts were
made on the tottering door, which was
now almost completely splintered, and on
the barricade of furniture behind it.  Burton
had lost no time in replacing the broken
chair, and twice his steady fire from near
the ceiling sent the attackers back in a
disorderly heap.

Meanwhile two of the windows and their
shutters had been riddled by long-distance
fire, and men were again mounting on
ladders to break into the rooms.  At one,
Pierre played a manful part; at the other,
the general, bracing himself as the peril
grew greater, stood holding his revolver
in his left hand, and shot man after man.

The grey light of early morning was now
stealing into the room, depriving the
defenders of the advantage of darkness.  The
shouts of the men, the reports of the guns,
the suffocating fumes, made the place an
inferno.  At the bedside the marquise still
bravely held her post.  Burton was too
busy to notice the extreme pallor of her
face, the trembling of her hands, the
agonised look of terror in her eyes.

With a wild shout the infuriated Germans
crashed through the broken door, and began
to pull away the barricade at the end of the
passage.  While they were doing so, it was
impossible for their comrades to continue
firing; the attack was interrupted, and
Burton shot down many of the enemy
among the pile of shattered furniture.  But
he recognised that, the Germans having
won an entrance to the passage, it was only
a question of minutes before the defence
was overwhelmed.

At this moment he heard a groan in his
rear.  Pierre, badly hit, had staggered from
the window he had been defending through
the communicating doorway into the
invalid's room.  "It is all over with me!" he
moaned, sinking at his mistress's feet.  The
crack of the general's revolver still sounded
at short intervals from the next room.
Here and there the woodwork was smouldering;
before long it would burst into flames.

"There is only one thing to be done,"
thought Burton, resolved to maintain the
struggle to the end, desperate as the position
was.  "We must keep together, and make
a last stand at the captain's bed."

Filling his magazine, he poured shot after
shot into the enemy crowding in the
doorway and bursting through the barrier.  The
survivors reeled back under this withering
fire, giving Burton time to leap from his
perch, run into the room, and call the
general to his side.  Pierre was helpless,
the invalid was half dead, only the general
and Burton remained to stem a tide which
would soon flow back with tenfold force
along the passage.

The two men posted themselves before
the bed, ready to meet the final rush.
Unknown to them, the marquise had taken
the revolver from Pierre's hand and stood
in front of her son, like a lioness defending
her cub.  The attack was renewed
simultaneously on all sides, but a strange
inadvertence on the part of the enemy intervened
to deal a partial check.  They were shooting
from the demolished barricade at the end
of the passage.  At the same time their
comrades outside had begun to fire through
the window in a direct line with it.  Several
of the Germans in the passage fell to the
bullets of their own friends.

Growling at this mishap, the unwounded
men broke through the doors at the sides
into the rooms.  Burton had closed and
barricaded, as well as he could, the
communicating doors, but he felt with a
sinking heart that a few seconds would
bring the unequal contest to its inevitable end.

The din was terrific, and with it was
now mingled a surprising sound from outside
the house.

"A machine-gun!" said Burton to
himself.  "They will shatter their own men!"  He
had no more time to think about it.
The door of the room to his left fell in with
a crash; in the glimmer of dawn the opening
was crowded with Germans.  Burton and
the general emptied their revolvers into
the mass; it collapsed, and the two men
hastily filled their chambers to meet the
next, the final rush.

.. _`THE DOOR FELL IN WITH A CRASH`:

.. figure:: images/img-123.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: THE DOOR FELL IN WITH A CRASH

   THE DOOR FELL IN WITH A CRASH

But there was a strange lull in the rifle
fire.  From outside again came the rattle
of a machine-gun, and, in a momentary
interval of silence, Burton caught the sound
of cheers.  Surely they were not German
cheers?  He thrilled with the conviction
that the voices this time had the true
British ring.  He waited the expected rush;
it did not come.  The doorway was clear;
heavy feet were trampling in frenzied haste
along the passage.  With the intermittent
rattle of machine-guns close at hand came
unmistakable British shouts.

Burton rushed to the window.  The
shutters were now in flames.  Wrenching away
the bars, he thrust his head through the
shattered glass, and joyfully hailed the
khaki-clad Lancers who had reined up below.
There was not a living German to be seen.
The greensward and the trampled parterres
were strewn with prostrate forms.  And
with a rattle and clank a battery of horse
artillery galloped upon the scene.

"We are saved, madame!" cried Burton,
turning back into the room.  "Our Lancers
have put the Germans to flight."

"Dieu merci!" murmured the lady, falling
on her knees at the bedside.

"Ah, les braves Anglais!" said the
marquis, grasping Burton's right hand with his
left, and jerking his arm up and down like
a pump handle.

They looked at old Pierre, who had
raised himself, and was feebly shouting:
"Vivent les Anglais!  Vive monsieur le
sourd-muet!"

Then, to Burton's amazement, he cracked
his fingers, and laughed like a lunatic.

"The poor fellow's brain is turned," said
the marquis.

"No, no, monsieur, I am not crazy.  Ah,
ah! it was a trick to play!"

"What are you raving about, mon vieux?"
asked the marquis.

"The smoke, monsieur!  The paper!  I
gave the spy Schwikkard a foretaste.  Ha!
Surely he believed his last hour was come.
See, monsieur, I burnt some brown paper in
the stove under his nose.  He would fire
the château!  Eh bien! assuredly he believed
it was already on fire.  It was drôle,
monsieur--fine trick, n'est-ce pas?"

"Schwikkard is our prisoner, without
doubt," said Burton to the marquis.  "Shall
we untie him?"

At this moment entered Major Colpus
of the Lancers, stepping gingerly over the
wreck of door and furniture.

"A pretty mess they have made of it,"
he said, with double intent.  "You are Burton?"

"That's my name."

"Captain Rolfe told us we should catch
a half-regiment of hussars if we hurried.
He rather expected you would be a prisoner.
We got to the village just as some of the
Germans were hauling away one Boitelet,
the village smith, it appears.  They left
him to us, and he gave us an inkling that
you were concerned in the rumpus here.
The Germans have skedaddled; we have a
few prisoners below.  You have had a whack
or two, I see."

"I wasn't aware of it," said Burton,
looking with surprise at dark stains on his
blouse.  "The marquis and his man are
both wounded."

"Glad to meet you, monsieur," said the
officer, who, with British shyness, had
affected to ignore the presence of all but
Burton.  Now, however, he greeted
monsieur and madame courteously, knelt down
and rendered capable first-aid to the marquis
and Pierre, and seeing at a glance that the
man in bed was very ill, dispatched Burton
for the regimental medico.

It was not until the doctor was engaged
with his patients that Burton found an
opportunity of releasing Major Schwikkard,
and handing him as a prisoner to the British
officer.  He was scarcely recognisable.  The
long vigil, with the dread of being roasted
by his own instructions, had broken him
both in body and mind.  He looked years
older.  His cheeks had fallen in, his whole
frame shook, and his hair was patched with
white.  When Major Colpus addressed him
cheerily, he stammered, tried to complete
a sentence, and burst into tears.

"Poor wretch!" the major murmured.
"Doctor, here's another patient for you.
Now, Mr. Burton, come and tell me all that
has happened."

"I want to get back to my aeroplane,"
protested Burton.

"No hurry for that.  Your friend, the
smith, has borrowed a spare mount, and
ridden off to the town to fetch something
or other for it.  I shan't let you off."

Burton growled that there was not much
to tell, and turned to take his leave of the
old marquis and his wife.  In their
over-flowing emotion they could hardly speak.

"God bless you, monsieur!" said the
marquise, brokenly.  "You have saved us
all.  Your doctor says that my son will
recover.  Take a mother's thanks, and wear
this, monsieur.  May the good God preserve you!"

She took from her neck a chain bearing
a richly jewelled cross, and pressed it into
Burton's hand.  He bade them good-bye.

"Adieu, monsieur!" said old Pierre, as
Burton shook hands with him.  "The
wound--it is nothing.  Your good doctor
has stitched it up.  I was not born to be
killed by a Bosche.  Ah, ça!  It was a good
trick, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BORROWED PLUMES`:

.. _`129`:

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter III Heading`:

.. figure:: images/img-129.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Chapter III Heading

   Chapter III Heading

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large

   BORROWED PLUMES

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   I

.. vspace:: 2

The tramp steamer *Elpinike*, bound from
the Peiræus to the island of Tenedos with
supplies for the Allied forces, was thrashing
its way northwards through the blue waters
of the Ægean Sea.  It was a warm, sunny
day; the Levantine crew lolled on the
bulwarks, and a mixed group of passengers
was gathered on the after-deck.  Three or
four French officers, smoking cigarettes,
basked on deck-chairs; several men, whose
nationality it were hard to determine,
leant in picturesque attitudes against the
wall of the deck-house; and a couple of
Englishmen, wearing overalls and low
cloth caps, and with blackened briar pipes
between their lips, sat side by side on the
third of the steps leading to the bridge.
They eyed with faint amusement the centre
of the group, a very fat man sucking a
very fat cigar, who lay back in his creaking
deck-chair and discoursed at large.

Mr. Achilles Christopoulos, as he had
announced himself to his fellow-passengers,
was the agent of the charterers of the vessel.
He was, he assured them, a very busy man.
He had broad, bulging, swarthy cheeks, a
multiple chin, and a heavier moustache
than is common among his compatriots;
for Mr. Christopoulos was, by his own
account, a Greek of Greeks.  His English
was fluent, with little oddities of accent
and pronunciation; and after every few
words he drew deep, audible gasps for breath.

"Yes, zhentlemen," said Mr. Christopoulos,
waving his cigar towards the
Englishmen and Frenchmen, "my country
will remain neutral.  Of war we have had
enough; it is time we had a rest.  And tell
me, why should we pull your chestnuts out
of ze fire?  Tell me zat?  What did you
do to help us against ze Turks twenty
years ago?  Nozink.  And two years ago?
Nozink.  We are nozink to you.  We wait;
zat is our policy; and when ze time comes,
why, zen we show ze world we do not
forget our history."

"Ah, bah!" exclaimed one of the Frenchmen,
flinging a half-smoked cigarette into
the sea.  "You are egoist, monsieur.  Your
history--vat?  I zink of Pericles; I zink
of your patriots since a hundred years.
Ah! zat vas not zeir policy."

"But ze time has changed, monsieur.
Pericles, he is dead.  Ze German Emperor,
he is alive."

"Conspuez-le!" said the Frenchman.

Mr. Christopoulos smiled.

"Consider with calmness, zhentlemen,"
he said, as though appealing from the
excitable Frenchmen to the more stolid
English.  "Ze Turk, with ze German
Emperor at ze back, is to-day a new man.
Ze King of ze Hellenes knows ze power of
Germany.  He runs no risks.  We have
men who are ignorant, who do not zink.
Zey make a fuss, cry for war; ze king
knows it is foolish, and holds tight ze reins.
Greece owes much to Germany, and shall
owe more."

The French officers burst into angry
declamation.  The Englishmen, who had
taken no part in the conversation, listened
for a few minutes longer, then got up and
strolled along the deck.

"Talks too much, Teddy," said one of them.

"Let 'em talk," replied the other.

Edward Burton, of the Flying Corps,
after several months' exhausting service in
France, had been invalided home.  On
reporting himself at headquarters after
his convalescence, he was ordered to the
Dardanelles.  Taking a P. and O. steamer
for Alexandria, he had met on board an
old friend, Dick Hunter, who had recently
come into the corps from a line regiment,
as observer.  The supply ship in which
they took passage at Alexandria had put
into Athens with a broken shaft, and to
save time they had joined the *Elpinike* at
the moment of her leaving port.

The *Elpinike* was very old, very dirty,
very smelly, and very slow, plodding along
at seven or eight knots.  The two airmen,
accustomed to easy and rapid flights, were
thoroughly weary of the voyage by the
time the vessel reached harbour.  They
found themselves there in the midst of
intense activity, reminding Burton of the
bustle and orderly confusion at the bases
in France.  They reported themselves at
headquarters, only to learn that, pending
the arrival of new machines from England,
there was no seaplane ready for them,
and they had to resign themselves to
kicking their heels for a time.  There was,
however, plenty to interest them.  Troops--British,
French, and Colonial--were continually
arriving from Egypt and departing
on transports for the Dardanelles.
Warships came and went; airmen were present
who had reconnoitred for the fleet in the
attacks on the forts, and to discover the
strength of the Turks on both sides of
the strait.  These retailed their experiences
for the benefit of their comrades newly
arrived, who grew more and more eager to
set to work.

Now and then they ran up against
Mr. Christopoulos, who was quartered near
them, and found it a little difficult to shake
off that garrulous man of business.  He
showed a disposition, they thought, to
presume on the acquaintance made during
the voyage from the Peiræus.  As a rule
they gave only perfunctory acknowledgments
of his greetings; sometimes they
were unable to escape him.

"You are still idle, zhentlemen?" he
said one day.  "Zere is a shortage of
aircraft, I hear.  How provoking!"

"It gives us time to get acclimatised,"
said Burton.

"Zat is true.  It is very fine air.  You
like ze wine of ze country?  It is very
fine.  You know, of course, zat here came
ze fleet from my country for ze siege of
Troy.  Ah! we Greeks were ten years
taking Troy, and I zink you will be ten
years taking Constantinople."

"Let's hope not," said Burton.  "Your
ancestors hadn't aeroplanes, you see.  Our
planes will be even more useful than the
Wooden Horse."

"Perhaps.  And when do you expect to
get to work?"

"All in good time."

"You will go to Enos, perhaps?"

"We shall go wherever we are sent.
You'll go back to Athens in the *Elpinike*
to-morrow, I suppose?"

"No.  My business keeps me here.  I
am a very busy man."

He went on to describe some of his
activities, and the Englishmen, breaking
away at last, made but a cool response to
his genial "Au revoir, zhentlemen."

It was ten days before their seaplane
arrived.  The engine required very little
tuning up.  They made a few trial trips,
to accustom themselves to the atmospheric
conditions of the Ægean Sea, and looked
forward to an early call to action.

On returning to their quarters one night,
they were surprised to see a British sentry
at the door of the house where Mr. Christopoulos
lodged.

"What's up?" asked Hunter, stopping.

"Got orders to guard this house, sir,"
replied the man.

"What for?"

"A party of us was sent to arrest the
chap that lives here, sir--the fat Greek
Christopoulos.  Don't know what he's been
doing; swindling somebody, perhaps."

"Did you get him?"

"No, sir.  He can't be found."

They passed on, and, after changing,
went to the restaurant for their evening
meal.  There they learnt that Mr. Christopoulos
was suspected of spying.  It appeared
that he must have got wind of the
order for his arrest, and had decamped;
but his disappearance was a mystery, for
no vessel had left the island since the
morning, with the exception of a small
country sailing-boat.  It was conjectured
that he had left on one of the small craft
engaged in bringing provisions to the base;
but though several of these had been
overhauled at sea by fast despatch boats, no
trace of the fugitive was discovered.

Two days later the airmen were summoned
to headquarters.

"Your machine is in order?" asked the
staff-officer.

"Yes, sir--ready for anything," Burton replied.

"Then you'll ship on board the ----."  He
named a cruiser lying in the harbour.
"There are rumours of a large Turkish
concentration at Keshan.  You'll find out
if they are true.  The cruiser will take you
up to the Gulf of Saros, and you will start
your flight from the neighbourhood of the
coast somewhere south of Enos.  The
cruiser will await your return."

They hurried down to the harbour.
The seaplane was slung on board the cruiser,
which steamed away northward, through
the huge armada of British and French
war-vessels, transports, and supply ships
that thronged the sea.  It was an open
secret that the preparations for a
combined attack by land and sea were far
advanced.  They heard the distant boom
of heavy guns, which grew louder and more
continuous as they neared the mouth of
the strait.  When they opened up the
headland of Suvla Burun the course was altered
a few points to the east, and another hour's
steaming across the Gulf of Saros found
them some five miles from the coast, off
Kurukli.  Here the cruiser hove-to, and the
seaplane was slung out.

The captain had already given the
airmen their bearings.  North-west lay Enos
and the river Maritza, with the Bulgarian
port of Dedeagatch beyond.  Keshan, their
objective, was to the north-east, about
thirty miles distant from the coast.

"I will cruise about for four or five
hours," said the captain, "keeping well
out to sea, out of range of the batteries in
the Bulair lines yonder."  He pointed due
east to the neck of the Gallipoli peninsula.
"You have plenty of petrol?"

"Enough for the job," replied Burton.

"Well, good luck to you.  'Ware shrapnel."

They slipped over the side into their
places.  Burton started the engine, and,
after skimming the surface for a few
moments, the seaplane rose like a bird and
soared away, ever higher, towards the
coast northward.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   II

.. vspace:: 2

The sky was clear, the air calm--an
ideal day for airmen.  In a few minutes
they passed over the rocky and precipitous
line of the coast and pursued their flight
inland.  Hunter, closely scanning the
country beneath through his glasses,
presently exclaimed, "A gun!" and shortly
afterwards, "A battery!"  The guns were
cleverly concealed from observation from
the sea, behind a cliff, marked by a clump
of the dense brushwood that flourishes on
the shores of the Gulf of Saros.  Hunter
expected a shot or two from the gunners,
but they made no sign, probably unwilling
to reveal their position to the warships in
the bay.  They were saving their shot for
more serious work than firing at seaplanes.

Northward they saw a river flowing
east and west.  Passing over a
village--Kiskapan, according to the map--they
crossed the river almost at right angles
with its course, and beyond a range of low
hills discovered their objective about five
miles away.  They had travelled some
thirty-five miles by dead reckoning, which
corresponded with the estimated distance
from the cruiser.

Before they obtained a full view of
Keshan itself they perceived evidences of
a considerable concentration of troops.  At
several points around the town there were
extensive encampments.  Clouds of dust
to the north, east, and north-east betrayed
the movements of troops or convoys.
And when they were still about two miles
from the town they heard the familiar
rattle of machine-guns and the long
crackle of rifle fire.  But they were too high
up to feel any anxiety, and while Burton
wheeled round and round in an extensive
circle, Hunter busily plotted out on his
map the positions of the camps, and made
notes of the directions of the movements,
the estimated number of the battalions,
and the nature of their arms.

After a while Burton began gradually
to drop, in order to give Hunter a chance
of recognising gun emplacements.  At about
two thousand feet the enemy opened fire.
White and creamy puffs of shrapnel floated
and spread in the air.  A shell burst some
distance beneath them, another above them,
and soon the machine was cleaving its way
through a thin cloud of pungent smoke.
It appeared that at least six guns were at work.

"Better get out of this," shouted Hunter.
"I've got about enough information."

"We'll go a little farther north," replied
Burton, "to see if any reinforcements are
coming up towards Keshan."

"All right, but go a bit higher; I heard
two or three smacks on the planes just now."

Rising a little higher, Burton swept round
to the north.  In a minute or two Hunter
was able to see that the hill track from
Rodosto was choked with transport of all
kinds.  Right and left, every possible
route from Constantinople and Adrianople
was equally congested.  It was clear that
a vast army was being concentrated within
striking distance of Gallipoli, and on the
flank of any force moving eastward from
Enos or any other point of disembarkation.

Burton then headed west towards the
Maritza, intending to return by way of Enos
and discover, if possible, what force the
Turks had available for the defence of that
place.  They were passing somewhat to the
north of Keshan, to keep out of the way
of the batteries, when Hunter suddenly
caught sight of an object like a large bird
low down in the sky on their left hand.  A
few moments' scrutiny through his glasses
confirmed the suspicions which had seized
him on the instant.

"An aviatik, coming our way," he called.

"Won't catch us," responded Burton
with a smile.

"Stay and fight it?"

"It's tempting, but we mustn't.  It
won't do to run risks when our job's to
collect information."

Hunter acquiesced with a sigh.  Burton
shifted his course a point or two to the
west, so as to run nearly parallel with the
enemy's aeroplane.

A moment or two later he gave a start of alarm.

"What's the matter?" asked Hunter.

"Afraid there's a leak.  The petrol
gauge is falling faster than it ought.  They
must have knocked a hole in the tank.  See
if you can find it."

Hunter twisted in his seat, bent over,
and began to examine the tank.

"Can't find any leak," he said presently.
"If there's one, it's out of reach.  How's
the gauge?"

"At this rate we shall be done in another
ten minutes."

"Whew!  How much farther to go?"

"At least twenty miles, perhaps more.
I wish we had come straight.  There's
absolutely no chance of getting back before
the petrol gives out.  Where's the enemy?"

"Still on our port side, going strong.  It
looks as if she means to chase us, thinking
we're running away.  We shall have to
fight now, shan't we?"

"Yes.  We're bound to come down in a
few minutes, and if we don't tackle her at
once it's all up with us.  How far is she off?"

"About a couple of miles, I think, and
about the same height.  Her course is
between us and Enos, worse luck!"

"Wish we had a machine-gun!  I'll
come round; take a shot when we're
within range, and for goodness' sake cripple her."

He brought the seaplane round in an
easy curve, at the same time climbing to
get above the enemy.  His eye was all the
time on the rapidly falling gauge.  The
aviatik held on its course for a little, then
wheeled to the south-west, as if to cut
the seaplane off.  It was clear that the
enemy airmen had no wish to avoid a fight.

Burton's wheeling movement had now
made his course almost due east, so that
the two machines were rushing obliquely
towards each other at the rate of about a
hundred miles an hour.  When they crossed,
Burton was slightly ahead of the enemy,
and, to his surprise, somewhat lower.  At
almost the same moment Hunter and the
enemy's observer opened fire with their
rifles, but each was handicapped by the
fact that he was firing from right to left,
and no damage seemed to have been done
on either side.  As soon as Burton had
passed the enemy, he banked his machine
and wheeled to the left, climbing as rapidly
as possible to make good the deficiency in
height.  The aviatik also made a spiral
movement to the left, with the result that
in a few seconds the machines were once
more converging on each other.  This
time, however, Burton was slightly to the
rear of the enemy, and when their tracks
crossed, he shot up behind it on its left.
The aviatik, a second or two too late, made
a desperate effort to edge away eastward,
but the movement only brought the two
planes closer together.

"We can't stick it another minute," gasped Burton.

Hunter did not reply.  He had dropped
his rifle and seized his automatic pistol.
The machines were at point-blank range.
Hunter fired.  The enemy's observer
screwed himself round in his seat to reply.
Aiming at the pilot, Hunter sent a stream
of bullets from his pistol.  The pilot fell
forward.  For a moment the aeroplane
rocked and seemed on the point of
capsizing.  Then the observer seized the
controls, and, with a recklessness that bespoke
inexperience or want of skill, began a
perilously steep volplané.

.. _`An aerial somersault`:

.. figure:: images/img-144.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: An aerial somersault

   An aerial somersault

Hunter looked down.  The machine was
rapidly dropping towards the edge of the
lake a little to the east of the Maritza River.
Suddenly, while yet some distance from
the ground, the aviatik's descent was
averted, possibly by an air pocket over the
lake.  For a moment it seemed poised
without motion, then it turned a somersault.
The observer fell out, and dropped into
the lake at the same instant as the machine
crashed on to the bank.

Meanwhile Burton had circled round.
His tank was nearly empty.  He must
either come down or fall down.  There was
no sign of life in the wrecked aeroplane;
the observer had disappeared in the water;
no one was in sight.  Swinging round again
Burton adjusted his elevator so as to
descend on the lake, and in a few seconds
the seaplane was resting on the surface
within thirty yards of the spot where the
aviatik lay, a mangled heap, on the bank.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   III

.. vspace:: 2

"We can wade ashore," said Burton.  "I
can see the bottom."

"Hadn't we better mend the leak?"
Hunter suggested.

"But I want to see if the German has
any spare petrol.  We've lost a lot."

They waded through a foot or two of
water, and examined the wreck.  One of
the wings was crumpled up; otherwise the
machine had suffered little injury.  The
pilot, a fair-haired German of Saxon type,
was dead.  There was plenty of petrol in
the tank, and Hunter drew this off into a
tin can while Burton returned to the
seaplane, pulled it ashore, and set about
discovering the leak.  It turned out to be a
long thin crack on the underside of the tank.

"How on earth are we to mend this?"
said Burton, looking at it ruefully.

"Why not stuff it up with mud?" said
Hunter.  "This stuff at the edge of the lake
seems to be clayey, and it will harden in no time."

"Good!  It may last for the few miles
we have still to cover.  Just keep a
lookout while I work at it."

Hunter went up the bank.  A rough
bridle-track skirted the lake and
disappeared in a plantation that came down
to within about a hundred yards of the
water.  To the south the view was shut in
by a wooded knoll.  There was neither
man nor house in sight.

Burton had just kneaded some clay for
stopping up the crack when they heard
shouts in the distance, apparently from a
southward direction.  He ran up and
joined Hunter, and they went together to
the knoll some hundred and twenty yards
away, from which they expected to get a
view of the southern shore and perhaps of
the men from whom the cries came.  They
were careful to keep under cover, and, on
arriving at the knoll, lay flat on the ground.
As they had hoped, they could now see
a large portion of the lake which had
previously been hidden from them, and
caught glimpses, on the western side, of
the bridle-track here and there among the
trees.  At intervals it disappeared behind
slight hillocks or denser stretches of the
plantation.

For a minute or two they saw no human
beings.  The sounds had ceased.  But
presently, about a third of a mile away to
the south, they caught sight of a party of
half a dozen horsemen searching the shore
of the lake, now trotting into the wood,
now riding at the edge of the water, now
cantering along the bridle-track in the
direction of the Englishmen.

"Turks!" murmured Burton.

"They must have seen the machines
fall," said Hunter.  "This is awkward, Teddy."

"It is, by Jove! and there are more of
them.  Look at that lot behind there.
They'll be here in three or four minutes--no
time to plaster the crack and get away."

"We had better scuttle our plane and
dive into the woods.  There's just a chance
of our getting across the Maritza into
Bulgaria."

"That means internment.  Besides, it
would be simply rotten to destroy the
machine if we can help it.  Perhaps there's
some other way.  In any case we must get
back.  Put on a sprint."

They raced back to the spot where they
had landed, the knoll concealing them from
the Turkish search-party.  The sight of the
body of the German pilot suggested an idea
to Burton.

"Look here, we must trick them," he said
rapidly.  "There's a bare chance of saving
our machine, and I doubt whether we've
time enough even to destroy it.  For the
next quarter of an hour I'm a German,
and you're my English prisoner.  We are
done if there's a German among them, but
that's our chance."

Removing his own cap, he replaced it
with that of the German pilot, borrowing
at the same time one or two small articles
of his equipment.  Then he bound Hunter's
hands and feet.

"Slip-knots, old man," he said.  "You
can free yourself in a jiffy.  But don't do
it too soon.  Just in time!  I hear them
coming.  Here goes!"

He uttered a loud shout.  In a few
moments the horsemen appeared on the
crest of the knoll.  Burton waved his left
hand, with his right holding a pistol pointed
at Hunter's head.  The horsemen, led by
an elderly Turkish officer in grey uniform
and fez, galloped down towards them.
While the officer was still several paces
distant, Burton saluted and addressed him.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch, mein Herr?"

No one would have guessed with what
anxious trepidation he awaited the answer.
He had used almost all the German he knew.
His heart leapt when the Turk shook his head.

"Vous parlez Français, monsieur?" said Burton.

"Oui, certainement.  Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?"

"You have come in good time, monsieur
le capitaine," said Burton in French.
"I regret that I do not speak Turkish, and
that our conversation must proceed in a
language which, no doubt, you cordially
detest.  Our good Kaiser will soon forbid
the use of it in Europe; German and
Turkish are the languages of the future.
Meanwhile! ... You see, monsieur le
capitaine, there has been a duel in the air.
My pilot was, unhappily, shot by the enemy.
We both had to descend; the enemy, no
doubt, had difficulties with his engine.
No doubt he expected to find both the
pilot and myself dead or disabled.  But a
true German, like a true Turk, is a hard
man to kill.  Single-handed I attacked the
enemy as they landed.  Imagine their
consternation and fear!  One of them,
using the long legs which serve the cowardly
English so well, fled into the wood.  The
other lies here."

The Turkish captain bent over his saddle
to inspect the captured Englishman.  For
his benefit Hunter assumed an expression of
sullen ferocity.

.. _`"He looks a terrible fellow"`:

.. figure:: images/img-151.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "He looks a terrible fellow"

   "He looks a terrible fellow"

"It was well done," said the Turk in
French.  "He looks a terrible fellow.  I
make you my compliments, monsieur.  It
was a brave deed to attack two men single-handed."

"Oh, that's nothing to us Germans,"
said Burton airily.  "We never think of
odds.  We are like that; the greater the
adverse odds, the better pleased we are."

"That is indeed the characteristic of
your noble nation," said the Turk politely.

"Still, it is as well to reduce the odds
when we can," Burton went on.  "Half
the enemy's force has escaped.  Could you
spare a few men, monsieur le capitaine, to
scour the woods?"

"Certainly, though I have little time to
spare.  I am engaged, you will be glad to
know, in escorting a fellow-countryman of
yours, monsieur--a German in the secret
service, who has just landed at Enos--with
important information for headquarters at Keshan."

He broke off to give his troopers orders
to hunt about in the woods for the escaped
English airman.  They were to return,
even if unsuccessful, at the sound of his
whistle.  Meanwhile, Burton and Hunter
had exchanged uneasy glances.  The
German could not be far away.  No doubt he
was coming up with other members of the
escort.  The sight of the falling aeroplanes
had drawn the officer in advance.

The troopers galloped off.  The officer
turned once more towards Burton, whose
expression of countenance gave no sign of
the agitation within.

"It will be interesting to meet a
fellow-countryman in this lonely spot," he said
calmly.  "May I offer you a cigarette,
monsieur?"

The Turk took one from the opened case,
thanked Burton, and turned the cigarette
over in his fingers.

"Made in Cairo, monsieur?" he said.

"Yes, it is a privilege of us airmen to
levy upon the enemy.  Refugees have no
need to smoke.  With the airman it is a
necessity--it steadies the nerves."

"True.  And they make good cigarettes
in Cairo."  He lit the cigarette from an
automatic lighter.  "The Englishman looks
frightened."

"He expects to be killed, I suppose, not
knowing our German humanity.  But you
will excuse me, monsieur, if I examine
the English aeroplane.  It will come in useful."

Burton returned to the machine, and,
after feigning to examine it, proceeded to
plaster the crack with nervous haste.  The
Turk had followed him, and, remaining in
the saddle, watched his operations with
much interest.

"It was this injury that caused the
Englishmen to descend," Burton explained.
"German bullets never fail."

"An English bullet was more successful,
however," said the officer, glancing at the
dead pilot.

"Not more successful, surely, monsieur.
We have scores of good pilots, we can
replace every man that falls; but the
English cannot afford to lose a single
machine.  And do not our German
newspapers tell us that they have hardly any
left?  The earth is the Kaiser's; the sea
is his; the air is his also.  Turkey will
flourish again in German air."

Having filled up the crack, Burton
proceeded to pour petrol into the tank.

"This fellow-countryman of mine?" he said.

"He will be here soon, no doubt.  He is
a trifle stout, and a poor horseman.
Consequently he travels slowly.  When he
saw the aeroplanes descending he insisted
on our pushing on to render assistance to
his fellow-countrymen.  He cannot miss the
track, there is only one.  But he should
be in sight."

The Turk looked backward over the track,
then saying, "Excuse me," he wheeled his
horse and began to trot towards the knoll.
Burton had by no means completed the
replenishment of the tank.  He felt that
something must be done.

"Monsieur le capitaine!" he shouted.

The Turk pulled up.  Burton went
towards him with an air of mystery.

"Your men are at fault, monsieur," he
said.  "It would be a pity to let the
Englishman escape, and you have no time to waste.
Perhaps if I show the way!"

He walked on up the knoll, the Turk
riding by his side.

"There, monsieur, you see that big tree
on the far side of the bay?  If you do not
find the fugitive thereabout you won't find
him anywhere."

The Turk hesitated.  Perhaps he was
considering whether it comported with an
elderly captain's dignity to take a personal
part in the search.  Burton eyed him
anxiously, hoping that he would go, meet
the approaching German, and take him
with him.  The pause was brief.  The
temptation to catch a live Englishman
overbore all considerations of dignity.
With a word of thanks to Burton the Turk
cantered on towards the big tree.

Burton breathed again.  He hurried back
to the seaplane.

"Slip the knots, Dick," he said, "but
don't get up.  I'll give you the word.  I
hope I've got rid of the Turk for a while."

He was in the act of pouring petrol into
the tank when a figure appeared from
round the western base of the knoll.  It was
a big Sancho-Panza-like person, mounted
on a mule.

"Great Scott!" murmured Burton.

Dropping the empty tin, he hastened to
the aviatik for another.

"I say, Dick, do you recognise that
fellow?" he asked.

"Christopoulos!" Hunter whispered.

"As large as life!  What on earth are
we to do?  He will recognise us directly,
even if he hasn't done so already."

"Shoot him and scoot!"

"I haven't enough petrol yet.  The
tank still leaks, though not so badly, and
if we shoot, the Turks will swarm up before
I can fill up and get away.  I think I had
better go on with the job, let him come up,
and trust to luck."

Keeping his back to the pseudo-Greek,
Burton carried another tin to the seaplane.
Before he had emptied it into the tank the
spy came within hailing distance and let
out a jovial greeting in German.  No doubt
he had recognised the German airman's
cap, and, without misgiving, hailed his
supposed compatriot.

"Good-morning, my friend," he shouted.
"I congratulate you.  Another German
victory!"

Burton, his back still towards the spy,
finished pouring out the petrol, and placed
the tin on the ground.  As he straightened
himself he discreetly drew his revolver
and suddenly turned round.  The spy was
now within half a dozen paces of him.

"Thank you, Mr. Christopoulos," he
said.  "Another victory--but not a
German victory.  We shall presently see who
is to be congratulated.  Meanwhile, you
will dismount."

The German, who had reined up at the
first glance at Burton's face, turned a
sickly colour and half-opened his mouth
as if to shout.

"Silence!" cried Burton peremptorily.
"If you make the slightest sound I will
shoot you on the spot."

He held his revolver carelessly in his left
hand, not pointing it at the German lest
any of the Turks should come within
view.  The spy showed more alacrity than
skill in dismounting.  He clumsily
clambered from his saddle, without daring to
turn his head in the direction of the Turks,
who could now be heard calling to one
another beyond the knoll.  Burton went
up to him.

.. _`NONPLUSSED`:

.. figure:: images/img-157.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: NONPLUSSED

   NONPLUSSED

"Hand over your revolver," he said.

"I haven't got----" the spy was
beginning.  Burton cut him short.

"No nonsense!  Hand it over.  Quick.
At the word 'three' I fire.  One--two----"

With an agonised look the German made
a dive for his revolver.  Burton took it with
his right hand before it was released from
the spy's tight pocket.  From a distance
they might have appeared to be shaking hands.

Burton had been rapidly casting about
for a means of disposing of the German.
He could not shoot him in cold blood;
there might perhaps be time to tie him
up, but he would then still be able to
convey to the Turkish headquarters the
information he had gathered at Tenedos.
That must certainly be prevented.  There
was only one thing to be done: they must
take him with them.

Just as Burton had reached this
conclusion, a Turk appeared on the knoll.

"Come with me," said Burton sternly.

The German accompanied him to the
seaplane.  He might be supposed to be
indulging his curiosity.  Standing between
him and the knoll, Burton said--

"You are interested in aviation.  Seat
yourself on the right-hand float."

The spy made as if to turn round.
Burton lifted his revolver.

"Don't waste time," he said.

With a groan the spy sat on the spot
indicated.

Burton seized the strap that bound him
to his seat, and rapidly tied the German to
the upright connecting the float with the
body of the seaplane, calling to Hunter--who,
still lying on the ground, had watched
these proceedings with excitement--to cover
the spy with his revolver.

The prisoner had hardly been secured
when the Turkish captain cantered over
the knoll, followed by two or three men.

"Now, Dick!" cried Burton.

Hunter sprang up and rushed to his place.

"Not there!" said Burton.  "Get on
to the left-hand float to balance the
machine."

Meanwhile he had started the engine, in
desperate anxiety lest it should not have
gathered momentum before the Turks came
up.  The spy had heard the thudding of
their horses' hoofs as they, seeing the
supposed English prisoner spring up,
galloped down the knoll.  Turning his head,
he let out a frenzied shout.  But it was too
late.  Burton had vaulted into his seat,
and, just three seconds before the amazed
and furious Turks reached the brink of the
water, the seaplane was skimming the surface.

The spy was now filling the air with his
frantic cries.  Burton afterwards said it
was like the booming of a buzzard.  The
Turks dismounted, and from the edge of
the lake fired at the fast-receding machine.
One or two shots pierced the planes, and
from a shrill cry of terror from the German,
Burton supposed that he had been hit.
But he was too busy to think of him.
Forcing the engine to the utmost he was
already manipulating the elevator.  The
machine rose steadily.  At the first possible
moment Burton swung it round to the west.
In a minute or two he crossed the Maritza.
Climbing ever higher, he shifted his course
a point or two to the south, and within
twenty minutes the machine swooped down
beside the cruiser, a few miles out in the
bay, and a number of laughing bluejackets
hastened to assist two dripping objects to
climb on board.

.. _`A discomfited spy`:

.. figure:: images/img-161.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: A discomfited spy

   A discomfited spy


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   IV

.. vspace:: 2

The cruiser made all speed back to Tenedos.
There the spy, a forlorn, chapfallen
individual, was taken ashore under an escort of
marines.  Within a short time a drum-head
court-martial was constituted.  Papers
found on the prisoner left no doubt of his
occupation; his protest that he was a
subject of King Constantine availed him
nothing.  When the sentence had been
pronounced, he recovered his courage and
confessed himself a German, and it was as
a German soldier that he paid the final
penalty.

Burton's exploit was reported to the
Admiralty, and some weeks later, when he
returned one evening from reconnoitring
the Turkish trenches after the landing on
the Gallipoli peninsula had been so
magnificently accomplished, he was welcomed
with the news that he had been awarded
the Distinguished Service Medal by the King.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WATCH-TOWER`:

.. _`163`:

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter IV Heading`:

.. figure:: images/img-163.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Chapter IV Heading

   Chapter IV Heading

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large

   THE WATCH TOWER

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   I

.. vspace:: 2

A rough, lumbering ox-cart was crawling
slowly up a steep winding hill-track in
Southern Macedonia.  The breath of the
two panting oxen formed steam-clouds in
the frosty air; slighter wreaths of vapour
clung about the heads of the two persons
who trudged along beside them.  One was
an old man, tall, broad, and vigorous, his
hair straggling beneath his fur cap, his long
white beard stiff with the ice of his
congealed breath.  The other was a boy, whose
face, ruddy with health and cold, showed
scantly under a similar cap much too large
for him, and above a conglomeration of
warm wrappings reaching to his feet and
giving him the appearance of a moving
bundle, thick and shapeless.

"I am tired, grandfather," murmured the
boy, pausing at the foot of a steep ascent.

"Tchk!" the old man ejaculated, emitting
a puff of white breath which the north-east
wind from behind carried over the head
of the nearest ox.  "Put your shoulder to
the wheel, Marco.  Show yourself worthy
of your name."

The boy obediently went round the cart
and set his shoulder to the heavy wooden
wheel on the off side.  His grandfather
shoving at the other, they helped the
labouring oxen to drag the vehicle up the ascent,
and then stopped to rest.

"That was well done, little son," said a
woman of some thirty years, sitting in the
forepart of the cart.  She handed the boy a
cake.  Behind her the cart was piled high
with bits of furniture and bundles of
household gear.  The boy seated himself on a
rock and nibbled his cake.  The oxen moved
their heads about as if in search of provender.
Straightening his tall form, the old man
turned his back, and in the full blast of the
bitter wind scanned the country to the
north-east.  A faint boom sounded far away in
that direction.  The woman started.

"Do you see anything, Father?" she
asked, anxiously.

"Nothing, Nuta.  But we must on.  It
will be two hours or more before we can call
ourselves safe."

Smacking the heaving flank of the near-side
ox, he set the beasts in motion, and the
cart creaked and jolted on over the rough
track.  This was lightly covered with snow,
which showed traces of those other travellers
who in this December of 1915 had journeyed
over the same route.  Snow lay deeper in
the hollows on either side, and on the heights
in the distance.  It was a bleak and
desolate landscape, its rugged features somewhat
softened, however, by the blanket of snow.
Here and there dark patches stood out in
the surrounding white, representing bushes
or trees; but there was no house or cottage,
no sign of life.

Old Marco, a small Serbian landed proprietor,
had postponed his flight from before
the invading Bulgars until all the other
inhabitants of his village had departed.  To
the last he had hoped that the French and
British forces would arrive in time to save
him.  His son was away fighting, as were
all the men from the little estate.  Having
loaded all his portable possessions on to the
cart, he waited with his daughter-in-law and
grandson until the ever-approaching boom
of guns warned him that further delay would
mean ruin, and then set off southwards, to
gain, if possible, protection from the Allied
forces that were said to be retreating on
Salonika.

The old man's pride was wounded.  He
traced his descent from that Marco Kralevich
who, towards the end of the fourteenth
century, struggled to maintain the
independence of Serbia against the Turks, and
whose name and knightly prowess live to-day
in song and story.  He had never tired of
relating to young Marco the heroic deeds of
his great ancestor, and it cut him to the
heart that he was compelled, in the wreck
of his country's fortunes, to abandon the
homestead where he had kept alive the
traditions of Serbian valour.  Even now,
old as he was, he would have borne a part
in the national struggle but for the claims
of his dear ones upon his protection.

The cart lumbered slowly on.  From time
to time the old man glanced anxiously
behind, appealing to the boy--did he see
anything moving there, or there?  On one such
occasion, when they stopped to rest
themselves and the oxen, and the old man was
looking to the rear, young Marco suddenly
pricked up his ears, and stood intently
listening.

"A strange sound, Grandfather," he said.
"Where?"

The boy nodded towards the east.
"What is it?"

"Like the hum of a bee far away."

The old man came to the boy's side and
listened.

"I cannot hear it," he said after a few
moments, adding impatiently, "Tchk!  This
is not the time of bees."

"But I hear it still," persisted Marco.
"It is louder."

He looked around, puzzled to account for
the unaccustomed sound.

"I hear nothing," said his mother.

"Look!" he cried, pointing excitedly
into the grey sky.

The eyes of his elders followed his
outstretched hand, but they saw nothing.

"It has gone," sighed the boy after a
little.  "But I did see something.  Perhaps
it was an eagle.  I think it flew just behind
the hills there."

His eyes ranged the horizon, where the
rugged line of white indented the sky.  A
spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and
a ray of sunlight trickled through.

"Look!" cried Marco again, stretching
out his hand this time to the north.  "There
is something moving on the snow."

The old man gazed northward, rubbed his
eyes, shook his head.

"Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked.

"Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes,
Father, they are moving.  There are
more of them.  They are like ants."

"The Bulgars!" muttered the old man.
"Come, we must haste."

Returning to the cart, he whipped up the
oxen, and the patient beasts, heaving their
load out of the drift into which its wheels
had settled, hauled it, creaking and
groaning, towards the brightening south.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   II

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, in a broad gully not far away,
a different scene was being enacted.

Across the gully lay the tangled ruins of
a biplane.  From the midst of the wreckage
crawled a long figure, in the overalls, helmet,
and goggles of a member of the Flying Corps.
His goggles had been partially displaced, and
lay askew upon his nose.  There were spots
of blood, already frozen, upon his cheek.
His movements were slow and painful, and
when, having emerged from the shapeless
mass of metal and canvas, he tried to stand
erect, he reeled, saved himself from falling
by an effort, and dropping upon an adjacent
rock, rubbed his eyes, groaned, and sat as
one dazed.

His immobility lasted only a few moments.
Staggering to his feet, his features twisted
with pain, he walked unsteadily to the ruins
of the aeroplane.

"Enderby, old chap," he called, bending down.

There was no answer.

Swiftly he pulled away the broken wires
and fragments of the shattered framework,
beneath which the form of his companion
was pinned, then knelt and laid his finger on
the wrist of the unconscious man.

"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.

Taking a flask from his pocket he poured
a few drops of liquid between the half-open
lips, then lifted the man carefully out of the
wreckage and laid him down on the slope.
Upon his brow he placed a little snow; he
repeated his medicinal dose, and watched
anxiously.  It was some minutes before the
eyelids opened, only to close again as a
spasm of pain distorted the injured man's
features.

"Where is it, old man?" asked Burton.

"My leg."

The answer came faintly.

"It doesn't hurt you to breathe?"

Enderby shook his head.

"Arms all right?"

And when Enderby had lifted them one
after the other, Burton placed the flask in
his comrade's right hand.

"Take another pull at that while I have a
look at you," he said.

Removing the puttees and cutting away
the stocking beneath, Burton saw that his
friend's right leg was broken.  He felt him
all over, causing him to wince now and then
as he touched a bruise.  There was no other
serious injury.

"Your leg's badly crocked, old man; but
I'm jolly glad it's no worse.  When that shell
winged us I made sure our number was up."

"What about you?"

"I'm just one compound ache--must be
bruised from top to toe.  Our luck's out
to-day.  Just clench your teeth while I see
what I can do in first aid.  The machine's
smashed to smithereens.  How I'm to get
you back to the M.O. beats me."

"Whereabouts are we?"

"Somewhere in Macedonia!  In a gully,
with hills all round, not a living thing in
sight.  I hoped we'd be able to flutter back
to our lines, but it wasn't to be.  Our troops
must be miles away, and getting farther
every minute, worse luck!  What fate dogs
us, that we must always be retreating?
Ah! that made you squirm; sorry, old
man, but you'll be easier now."

He had bound up the leg, and now brushed
away the beads of sweat which the exertion,
in his own sorry state, had brought out upon
his brow.

"Now, look here, Enderby," he said,
"the best thing I can do is to trudge off
after our men and get a machine to bring
you in.  And the sooner I start, the better.
You ought to be safe enough here.  You're
well hidden; the Bulgars' advance won't
bring them past this spot, there's no road.
But if I lose any time they'll be somewhere
in the neighbourhood before a machine could
arrive, and then it'll be hopeless.  I'll
rummage out some food from our wreck, and
leave you that and my flask----"

"You'd better take it; you've a long
tramp before you, and may come across some
advance patrols of the Bulgars for all you
know.  Besides----"

He paused.  Both men pricked up their
ears simultaneously.  Each looked an anxious
inquiry at the other.  From somewhere not
far away came a rhythmic sound--a succession
of strident, scraping sounds--which in
a moment they recognised as the creaking
of a cart.

Neither man spoke.  Burton stole down
the gully, and round the shoulder of a hill
in the direction of the sound, which grew
louder as he went.  Apprehensive that his
plans for the rescue of his friend were already
defeated, he peered cautiously round the
corner of rock.  He beheld a rough
hill-track winding upwards from right to left
across his front.  Some distance to the right
another track ran into the first, skirting a
spur from a north-westerly direction.
Nothing was visible on either track, but the
regular monotonous creaking of the cart was
drawing nearer.

Burton drew back behind a rock and
waited.  Presently, from round one of the
innumerable bends and twists in the main
track, appeared the great heads of two oxen
yoked together; then a woman's form came
into view, perched on the forepart of a heavily
laden cart; last of all, tramping in the rear,
a tall old man, and, by his side, a boy whose
head reached scarcely higher than his elbow.

The watcher breathed more freely.  It
was only a typical refugee party; he had
already seen hundreds like it toiling along
the southward roads to Salonika.  There
was nothing to fear here; on the contrary,
it suggested a means by which Captain
Enderby might be at once removed, without
the delay that would be caused by his own
going and coming.

The cart was creeping laboriously up
towards him.  When it was nearly opposite,
Burton stepped forth from his hiding-place.
His sudden appearance drew signs of
momentary alarm.  The woman stiffened; the
old man whipped out a revolver; the boy
ran round in front of the cart, and with a
fierce expression, comical on his young face,
stood before his mother, drawing from his
belt a knife.

Burton threw out his hands and called out
that he was an Englishman.  But even
before he spoke the attitude of hostility had
relaxed, the woman had addressed a few
words to the old man, and he had already
replaced his weapon.  They had recognised
that the stranger was neither a Bulgar nor a
German.  Only the boy remained suspicious
and alert, stoutly gripping his knife.

The cart had stopped.  Burton walked
towards it.  He had picked up a few words
of Greek during the eleven months he had
spent in the East, and he explained in that
language that he was a friend and an Englishman.
Rather to his surprise the old man
replied in French.

"Does monsieur speak French?"

The wall of nationality was down, and in
the language of their common ally the
Serbian and the Englishman held a rapid
colloquy.  Presently the old man turned to
the boy.

"You were right, Marco," he said in his
own tongue.  "That thing you heard
humming like a bee, that thing you saw moving
like an eagle, was an English aeroplane.  It
has come to the ground and broken, struck
by a Bulgar's shell."

"Oh! let me see it," cried the boy,
eagerly, forgetting all else in the new object
of excitement, slipping the knife back into
his belt, and moving away from the cart.

"Wait!" said his grandfather, peremptorily.
He resumed his conversation with
Burton.  There was anxiety, hesitancy in
his air.  He appeared to be struggling with
himself.  "The enemy is not far behind,"
he said.  "We have far to go; every
minute is precious."  He looked nervously
along the track behind him, then seemed to
question his daughter with his eyes.  She
nodded.  "Tchk!" he ejaculated.  "I will
do it.  No true Serb, monsieur, much less a
descendant of Marco Kralevich, can refuse
to succour an ally of his nation.  Show me
the way."

Young Marco, to his disappointment, was
left to guard the cart and to keep a
lookout.  The old man hastened with Burton to
the spot where Captain Enderby lay beside
the wreck of the aeroplane.  As they went,
Burton caught sight of a square tower on a
hill-top far away to the south.

"What is that?" he asked.

"An old watch-tower," replied the Serb.
"There are many such on high points in
different parts of the country."

Burton paused a moment to scan the
solitary tower through his field glasses, then
resumed his course.  On reaching the fallen
man, the old Serb at once set about placing
the injured limb in splints formed out of the
wreckage, preparatory to carrying him back
to the cart.  He was still thus engaged when
Marco came running up the gully.

"Grandfather," he said, breathlessly, "a
party of horsemen are coming up the side track."

"How many are they, boy?"

"Ten or twelve.  They are far away."

"I must go back," said the old man.
"You will still be safe here."

"I will go with you," said Burton.  "My
glasses may be useful."

They followed the boy, who ran ahead,
regained the cart, and went beyond it to the
point where the two tracks met.  The sky
had now cleared, and the white-clad country
glistened in the sunlight.  Keeping under
cover, Burton peered through his glasses
along the winding track.  At first he saw
nobody, but presently a horseman came into
sight round a bend, followed closely by two
more riding abreast.  After a short interval,
another couple appeared, the first file of a
party of ten, riding two by two.  They were
still too far distant for Burton to distinguish
anything more than that they were in
military uniform.

He told the old man what he had seen.

"Beyond doubt they are Bulgars," the
Serb growled, drawing his fingers through
his beard, which the sunlight had thawed.

He stood silent for a little, his eyes fixed
in thought, his hands working nervously.

"They will overtake us," he said at
length.  "We must move the cart from the
track.  Come, monsieur."

They hurried back to the cart.  At a
word from the old man the woman
dismounted, and going to the heads of the
oxen, led them off the track over the rough
ground of the hill-face, while the three others
set their shoulders to the wheels.  By their
united efforts the unwieldy vehicle was
hauled round the shoulder of the hill
towards the gully, to a spot two or three
hundred yards from the aeroplane, where it
was out of sight from either of the tracks.
Leaving it there in charge of Marco and his
mother, the two men returned, obliterating
the traces of the wheels in the snow, and
finally posting themselves behind a rocky
ridge near the junction of the tracks, where
they could see the approaching horsemen
when they should pass, without being seen
themselves.


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   III

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Some twenty minutes later they heard the
tramp of hoofs, somewhat muffled by the
snow, and guttural voices.  Soon the first
horseman passed before them--a Bulgarian
officer.  Immediately behind him came a
group of three, the two on the outside
being German officers, the horseman
between them a middle-aged Serb in the
characteristic dress of the peasant proprietor.
The watchers noticed that he was tied
round the middle by a rope, the other end
of which was held by a Bulgarian trooper
riding behind.  Old Marco's eyes gleamed
with the light of recognition.  He told
Burton later that the prisoner was one
Milosh Nikovich, a friend of his, a small
farmer whose property lay a few miles from
his own estate.

On arriving at the junction of the tracks
the officers halted.  One of the Germans took
a map from his pocket, and pored over it
with his companions; they were apparently
consulting together.  Then they put
questions to their prisoner.  Their words were
inaudible.  The Serb's face wore an expression
of sullen defiance, and it was clear that
his replies were unsatisfactory, for the trooper
who held the rope moved up his horse, and
lifting a foot, drove his spur savagely into
the prisoner's calf.  The man winced, but
remained motionless and silent.  Burton
heard old Marco mutter curses below his
breath.  Then one of the Germans pointed
southwards questioningly; the prisoner gave
what appeared to be an affirmative answer,
and the party pushed on.  It soon
disappeared through the windings of the track.
The watchers counted fourteen in all.

When the enemy were out of sight and
hearing, Burton turned to the old man.

"A scouting party?" he said.

"Without doubt," replied the Serb.
"The main body must be behind.  Will
you look for them through your glasses?"

Burton left their hiding-place for a spot
whence he could view the tracks and the
plain beyond.  No troops were in sight, but
the boom of guns came faintly on the air
from the north-east.  Burton knew, from
what he had seen during the morning's
reconnaissance, that somewhere eastward from the
spot where he stood the British forces were
steadily falling back in face of overwhelming
numbers of Bulgars and Germans.  Was it
possible that the patrol that had just passed
was the advance guard of a flanking force?
Unluckily his reconnaissance had been cut
short by the Bulgarian shell almost as soon
as it was begun.  The peril of Captain
Enderby and himself, and of his Serbian
friends, was complicated with a possible
unexpected danger to the British army in
retreat.  To guard against the latter seemed
to be out of his power.  The immediate
question was, how to ensure the safety of
Enderby and the Serbian family with whose
lot his own was for the moment cast.

Remaining at the spot from which he
could detect any signs of an enemy advance
from the north, he talked over the situation
with old Marco.

"The enemy are in front and behind," he
said.  "It seems we have little chance of
getting through.  But if we don't get
through----"

"We should be safe for a time in the
gully.  The enemy will keep to the tracks.
But that would help us little in the end, for
if they advance beyond us, they will form
a wall without gates, and we must either
surrender or starve."

"And meanwhile my friend is without
proper treatment, and may have to lose his
leg or be lamed for life.  You have no
stomach any more than I for being a prisoner
with the Bulgars.  Don't you think we had
better push on, and try to slip past the
scouting party?  It is not likely they will
go far in advance of their main body.  Isn't
there a way over the hills without taking to
the track?"

"If we were on foot we might steal
through the country, but not with the cart.
That holds all my worldly possessions.  And
your friend cannot be moved without it.
Look, monsieur; do not my eyes, old as they
are, see masses of men moving on the plain
yonder?"

"You are right," said Burton, after a
glance northward.  "The main body is on
the move.  We must decide at once.  Let
us carry Captain Enderby to the cart, push
on, and trust to luck."

Hurrying back to the gully, they carried
the injured man to the cart.  While the
Serb led this back to the track, Burton took
the precaution of removing the carburetter
and one or two other essential parts from
the engine of the aeroplane.  This was badly
smashed, but it was just as well not to leave
anything of possible use to the enemy.
Then he hauled the machine-gun from the
litter that covered it, expecting to find it
hopelessly shattered.  To his surprise it
appeared to have suffered no injury except
superficial dents, and the ammunition belts
were evidently perfect.  Hurrying after the
others with the engine parts, he laid these
on the cart, then took young Marco back
with him to help him carry away the
machine-gun and ammunition.

"We've saved something from the wreck,
old man," he said to Enderby as he came up
with the gun on his back.

"Hardly worth while, is it?" asked the
captain.  "There's precious little chance of
our getting through.  Hadn't you better shy
it into a gully in case they capture us?"

"I will at the last minute if things look
hopeless; but we'll stick to it as long as we
can."

All being ready they set off along the track.
Old Marco sent the boy ahead to scout.
The woman resumed her seat on the cart,
where a comfortable place had been
arranged among the baggage for Captain
Enderby.  The two men followed on foot,
pushing at the wheels where the gradient
was too steep for the wearied oxen.

So they toiled along for upwards of an
hour.  Young Marco ahead had not caught
sight of the horsemen; there was no sign of
the enemy in the rear.  It was the old man's
hope that there would be time, if danger
threatened, to rush the cart into some hollow
or some gap between the rocks.  Such a
threat was more likely to arise from the
scouting party than from the larger force
behind, and the boy, as instructed by his
grandfather, kept sufficiently in advance to
give timely warning.

The track was continuously up hill, broad
at some points, at others so narrow that the
cart was only just able to pass between the
rocky borders, sometimes as low as
kerbstones, sometimes rising to a height of many
feet.  The frequent windings prevented the
travellers from getting a direct view for any
considerable distance ahead.  Every now
and then they had glimpses of the
watch-tower which Burton had previously noticed,
and which they were gradually approaching.
At such times he scanned it through his
glasses, half expecting to find that some of
the scouting party had ascended it to survey
the surrounding country.  But no human
figures yet showed above the summit.

At length, however, on rounding a corner,
the travellers were startled by a sudden
flash from the tower.  They halted, Burton
levelled his glasses, and declared that he saw
two heads and pairs of shoulders projecting
above the top.  Other flashes followed, at
intervals long or short.

"They are heliographing to the main
body behind us," he said to Enderby,
repeating the information in French to the Serb.

"Can they see us?" asked Enderby.

"They might perhaps if they looked, but
they are gazing far beyond us, of course.
We had better back a little, though."

They had, in fact, halted before the oxen
had come completely into view from the
tower, and by backing a few feet they were
wholly concealed.

The three men held an anxious consultation.
The tower was probably two miles
ahead.  To go on would involve discovery
by the enemy.  On the other hand, parties
of Bulgarians might already be marching
up the track behind them.  It seemed that
they were trapped.

"We had better wait a little," Burton
concluded, "and see whether they leave
the tower and go forward.  In that case we
might venture to proceed."

The signalling continued for some few
minutes, then ceased.  The men
disappeared from the summit of the tower.
Burton was on the point of suggesting that
they should move on when he caught sight
of a small figure flitting rapidly from rock
to rock down the track towards them.

"It is the boy," he said, after a look
through his glasses.

In a few minutes young Marco arrived,
excited and breathless.

"Three horsemen are coming down the
hill," he reported.

"Tchk!" muttered the old man, repeating
the news.  "How far away, child?"

"A mile or more.  They are riding slowly;
the track is steep."

For a few moments consternation and
dismay paralysed their faculties.  That the
horsemen formed part of the patrol they
had already seen was certain; no others
could have safely passed the tower occupied
by the enemy.  Discovery and capture
seemed inevitable.  The fugitives might,
indeed, clamber among the rocks and conceal
themselves for a time; but the nature of
the ground at this spot precluded the
removal of the cart, and its tell-tale presence
on the track unattended would put a short
limit to their safety.

At this critical moment the old Serb's
experience of half a century of mountain
warfare came to his aid.

"We must ambush the Bulgars," he said.
"Look there!"

He pointed to a spot a few yards in their
rear, at the end of a narrow stretch of the
track which had given him an anxious
moment in leading the oxen.  On one side
the bank rose rugged and steep, on the other
it fell away, not precipitously, but in a
jagged slope which had threatened ruin to
the cart if the wheel had chanced to slip
over the edge of the track.  Burton quickly
seized the possibilities of the situation.

"By Jove!  It's risky, but we'll try it,"
he remarked to Enderby.

The captain had already taken his revolver
from its case.  But old Marco had conceived
a plan that would render Captain Enderby's
co-operation unnecessary.  He explained it
rapidly to Burton, and they proceeded to
carry it out.  The woman was told to
conceal herself behind a thorn bush growing in
a cleft in the bank.  The cart was backed
to the chosen spot, and young Marco, his
eyes alight with excitement and eagerness,
clambered up to the driver's seat.  A rug
was thrown over Enderby and the machine-gun
lying at his side, and the old man took
up a position with Burton behind the cart,
concealed by the pile of furniture from
the eyes of any one approaching down the hill.

The Serb had taken a rifle from beneath
the baggage.

"There are only three," he said.  "I can
shoot them one by one."

"No, no!" cried Burton.  "The shots
would alarm their friends above.  Besides,
they'll be more useful to us alive, as hostages,
perhaps, even if we don't get useful information
out of them."

"You are right," said the old man, "but
it is a pity," and he reluctantly laid the rifle
aside.

They had reason to commend young
Marco's scouting, for only a few minutes
after their preparations were completed, the
horsemen were heard approaching the bend.
The boy, whose eyes had been fixed on his
grandfather, at a nod from him whipped up
the oxen, and the cart lurched forward just
as the horsemen came in sight.  As if
surprised by their appearance, Marco pulled up
so that there was barely room for a horse to
pass on the side where the bank shelved
downwards.  His grandfather and Burton
were still hidden in the rear.

The three horsemen had been riding
abreast, but at sight of the cart they moved
into single file.  The first was a German
officer; then came the Serbian prisoner with
the Bulgarian trooper holding the rope
behind.

The German officer reined up, and asked
Marco a question.  The boy shook his head,
and the German turned impatiently to the
prisoner, ordering him to repeat the
question.  At this moment Burton, revolver in
hand, slipped from behind the cart on the
side of the declivity, while the old man with
some difficulty squeezed himself between
the wheel and the high bank on the other
side.  A gleam in the eyes of the prisoner
apprised the German that something was
happening behind him, and he was in the
act of turning when his arm was seized and
he saw himself confronted by a determined-looking
young airman, levelling a revolver
within a few inches of his head.  One arm
was held as in a vice, the other hand was
engaged with the rein; it was impossible to
draw his own revolver.  He called to the
trooper to shoot, but that warrior was
otherwise engaged.

"Dismount, sir," said Burton, quietly.
"You are my prisoner."

.. _`"Dismount, sir"`:

.. figure:: images/img-189.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "DISMOUNT, SIR."

   "DISMOUNT, SIR."

And seeing that there was no help for it,
the German made haste to obey.

Meanwhile on the other side old Marco had
performed his allotted part.  The trooper,
catching sight of Burton before the German,
was for a moment too much surprised to be
capable of action; but then, dropping the
rope he held, he was about to spur forward
to his superior's assistance, when the old
Serb, who had crept round while the man's
attention was occupied, suddenly hurled
himself upon him.  The old man was beset
by no scruples.  A Bulgar was always a
Bulgar.  A shot would raise an alarm; cold
steel was silent.  All the strength of his
sinewy arm, all the heat of age-long national
hatred, went into the knife-thrust that
hurled the trooper from his saddle, over
the edge of the track, and down the
sharp-edged rocks of the slope beyond.

Within less than a minute the ambush had
succeeded without any sound or commotion
that could have been heard by the enemy
in the tower nearly two miles away, and out
of their sight.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   IV

.. vspace:: 2

"Milosh Nikovich, this is a good day,
old friend," said old Marco, as he released
the prisoner.

"A good day indeed, Marco Kralevich.
But I am amazed.  Who is he that dealt
with the German?"

"Hand me that rope, if you please,"
came from Burton in French.  "Clasp your
hands behind, sir," he added to the German,
in English.

"You shpeak to me!" spluttered that
irate officer.  "Know you zat I am an
officer, a captain of ze 59th Brandenburger
Regiment?  It is not fit zat I haf my hands
bounden."

"You must allow me to judge of that,
sir," remarked Burton, with a quiet smile.

"No, I protest.  I refuse; it is insolence.
You captivate me, zat is true; you seize me
ven I look ze ozer vay; zat is not vat you
call shport.  But I gif you my parole----"

"I can't accept it, sir."

"Ze parole of a German officer----"

"It's no good talking, captain," Burton
interposed, bluntly.  "The word of a German
has no value just now.  If you do not
submit quietly I shall have to use force.  No
doubt you will be released when you are safe
in the British lines.  Come now!"

Amid a copious flow of guttural protestation
the captain allowed his hands to be
tied behind him.

"I felt rather sorry for the chap," said
Burton to Enderby afterwards.  "He looked
a decent fellow as Germans go, and perhaps
I did him an injustice.  But, being a German,
we can't trust him; and we can't afford to
take risks."

While he was engaged in securing his
prisoner, the two Serbs had been conversing
rapidly.  Old Marco came up to him, and
took him apart.

"We have gained time at least, monsieur,"
he said.  "My friend Milosh Nikovich
tells me that the others are remaining
in the tower for the night; the main body
is not expected until the morning."

"That will give us a chance to slip past
in the darkness--if only your wheels didn't
groan so.  Stay!  I have some vaseline in
my wallet, I think; we can grease them
with that.  It's nearly four o'clock, I see;
the mist is rising; that will help us.  I
suppose, by the way, the Bulgars in the
tower will not expect this German to return?"

The old man spoke to his compatriot.

"He does not know," he said.

"Then we shall have to look out.  Luckily
the sun is going down; they can't heliograph
any more; and it will be impossible for the
people above to see the track through the
mist, so they won't know that the horsemen
have been checked.  If the air had been
clear they would certainly have become
suspicious on failing to catch sight of the
party on open stretches behind us.  With
luck we shall get through.  What were they
doing with your friend?"

The old Serb repeated what Milosh had
told him during their colloquy.  His village
had been raided; most of the inhabitants
had been massacred by the Bulgars; he
himself had been impressed as guide, and
forced to lead the patrol to the tower, which
they knew by hearsay, though ignorant of
the hill-track that led directly to it.

"I reproached him for his weakness,"
added the old man apologetically.  "He
ought to have refused to act as guide.
Better that a Serb should have allowed
himself to be shot.  But a man does not
always see clearly; he has a family--who
are safe, praise to the Highest!"

"But why did they wish to reach the tower?"

"It commands the country for many
miles.  They could see from it the forces of
your brave countrymen.  Without doubt
they signalled what they had discovered,
and I suspect that to-morrow a force of
light cavalry will come this way to fall on
their flank at the cross-roads below."

"That is one reason the more for getting
through.  We must do it to-night.  You
know the country, my friend; we must act
on your advice."

Since no move could be made until it was
quite dark, they sat down on the rocks and
took a meal, eating sparingly of their
provisions as a matter of prudence.  Who could
tell what the night and the morrow would
bring forth?

The Englishmen were amused at young
Marco, who, munching a wheat-cake, solemnly
watched their every movement, and eyed
longingly the sandwiches they took from
their tin.  Burton beckoned him forward
and gave him a sandwich.  The boy took it,
hesitated a moment, then shyly offered his
wheat-cake in exchange, and ran back to his
mother.

"I'm afraid you're in great pain, poor old
chap!" said Burton, noticing the pallor
and drawn expression of Enderby's features.

"Oh, that's all right.  I can stick it out.
I rather fancy our German friend feels
worse.  It must be horribly galling to his
nobility.  What's his name'?"

The German was sitting apart, moodily
gnawing his moustache.  Burton went over
to him, loosed his hands, and offered him a
sandwich and his flask.  The former he
accepted with a sort of unwilling
graciousness; the latter he declined.

"Your visky I drink not; I haf in my
own flask goot German vine.  You permit
me?" he asked, ironically.

"Of course.  It isn't whisky, by the way.
May I ask your name?"

"It is Captain von Hildenheim.  I am not
pleased.  Zis is not ze handling zat is vorth
a German officer.  Vunce more--

"Sorry.  We can't have it all over again.
You must make the best of it.  It won't be
for long."

"No, zat is true; it vill not be for long,"
returned the German with a slight smile.

"He evidently thinks we shall be collared
to-night or to-morrow," said Burton, when,
having bound his prisoner again, he returned
to Enderby.  "Have you got a cigarette in
your case?  Mine's empty."

He sat by his friend, smoking in silence,
meditating as he watched the wreaths
mingling with the mist in the growing darkness.
Presently he got up, and went to the spot
where the Serbs were grouped.  Young
Marco, wrapped in a rug, was already asleep
on the cart.

"What about this tower?" he asked the
grandfather.  "How is it placed?  What is
its strength and its state of repair?  I don't
ask idly; an idea occurred to me just now."

"I know it well," answered the old man.
"Twenty years ago I held it during a Bulgar
comitadji raid.  It stands on a spur on the
hill-top.  The track passes not far beneath
it.  On two sides the ground forms a sort of
glacis.  The tower is solidly built of stone;
it has two storeys.  What is its condition,
Milosh Nikovich?  It is twenty years since I
was there."

"It is strong and sound, Marco Kralevich,
except inside.  They took me only into the
lower room.  The woodwork was rotted
away, or perhaps some of it has been removed."

"Yes, it may be so.  In the last war the
Greeks held it for a time against the Turks.
The place is well chosen for a watch-tower.
From the top you see for many miles, most
freely towards the north-east, whence we
have come; less freely, but still a great way,
towards the south-west, in which direction
the British Army is retreating, monsieur.
Tchk!  Why did not your country and
France allow us to fall on the Bulgars before
they were ready?  Serbia pays a heavy price."

Burton felt he had nothing to say to this,
and after a few condoling words returned
to his place by Enderby's side.  The
information he had gathered had caused his
half-formed idea to crystallise.

"I say!" he began, seating himself on
the edge of the cart.

"Say on," returned Enderby, smiling at
his friend's solemn face.

"Well, there are only ten or eleven in the
tower above there."

"What is the precise force of your adverb?"

"What adverb?  Oh, 'only.'  Well, ten
or eleven's not a great crowd.  There are
four of us, without counting you and the
woman----"

"Three men and a boy!  We'll assume
for the moment that one Englishman is
worth four of any other nation; but are
your two and a half Serbs equal to the
other six or seven?  Of course I see what
you are driving at."

"Well, isn't it worth trying?  There's no
doubt that a Bulgarian column intends to
cut off our men's retreat, and if we could
seize the tower, and hold them up even for
an hour or two, it might make all the
difference."

"But they're in possession; and remember,
the attack needs more men than the defence.
The odds are dead against you, Ted."

"Not altogether.  You must allow for the
darkness, surprise, and the cocksureness of
the enemy.  Didn't a corporal carry off
twelve prisoners single-handed at Loos the
other day?  With a little luck----"

"We've a way of assuming that the luck
is going to be on our side!  Well, see what
the old Serb says.  I must be out of it,
unfortunately; but you needn't consider me."

"That's very good of you, but, of course,
I do consider you.  If it wasn't for you I'd
not hesitate a moment."

"Don't let that trouble you.  At the
worst they'll only collar me.  The risks will
be wholly yours."

Burton returned to the Serbs, sat down
beside them, and talked to them until the
dusk had deepened into night.

The upshot of their conversation was
presently disclosed.  While young Marco was
thoroughly greasing the axle-trees, Burton
inflicted a still deeper wound on the dignity
of Captain von Hildenheim by gagging him.
Milosh was already in possession of his
revolver.

Then the little party started quietly on the
upward track.

A cold wind had set in from the north-east,
dispersing the mist, and carrying with
it an occasional shower of powdery snow.
Except during these brief showers the sky
was clear and brilliant with starlight.  A
glance behind showed the red camp-fires of
the enemy far in the plain below.  Ahead,
the tower, when they caught sight of it,
loomed black like a sentinel against the
indigo background.  A faint glow shone
from one of its shutterless windows, half-way
up the wall.

The track was so well shadowed by its
rocky banks that there was little risk of the
party being seen.  Yet, when they were still
some distance from the tower, Burton deemed
it prudent to call a halt.  There was a
whispered consultation, then Milosh went
forward alone to reconnoitre.

Creeping up with every precaution, eyes
and ears alert, he came within sight of a
low wall some forty or fifty paces from the
tower, pierced by a single aperture where at
one time had been a gate.  This wall shut
off the tower and the crag on which it stood
from the narrow bridle-path that mounted
the hill to the north, and fell away to the
south towards the valley.

In the gap in the wall a sentry stood,
finding such shelter from the biting wind as
the thickness of the stonework afforded.  He
blew upon his hands, stamped his feet,
murmured his discomfort.  At one moment he
took out a watch, and seemed to caress it
with his fingers.  He did not lift it towards
his eyes; he could not have seen the time
in the starlight; and the shiver which visibly
shook him as he returned it to his pocket
was the shudder of physical cold; he had
forgotten the ruthless butchery of the Serb
who had, not long before, been the owner
of the watch.

.. _`MILOSH WAITS`:

.. figure:: images/img-201.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: MILOSH WAITS.

   MILOSH WAITS.

All was quiet around.  Only the feeble
ray high up in the tower showed that the
place was occupied.  The sentry's faculties
were numbed by the cold, or he might have
noticed that the even contour of the wall,
some few paces from him to the north, was
broken by a dark protuberance which had
not been there in daylight.  It might have
been a buttress, except that there were no
buttresses on the outside of the wall.
Astonished as he must have been if he had
observed it, he would have been still more
amazed had he been tramping his beat before
the gate instead of cowering from the icy
blast.  For the dark shape moved, imperceptibly,
like the hour hand of a clock, yet
surely, and always towards him.

Within two paces of the gateway it
suddenly stopped.  The line of the wall was
no longer broken.  There was nothing now
for the sentry to see.

A few minutes passed.  The sentry
muttered, growled, stamped on the ground.
After all, he could not keep warm.  He
had sheltered his nose and ears at the
expense of his feet.  Only movement could
restore the circulation of those chilled
members.  He picked up his rifle, came out
through the gateway, swung round to the
right, and tramped along close to the wall.

No sooner was his back turned than the
dark shape that had remained motionless
at the foot of the wall glided swiftly up to
and into the gateway.  The sentry turned
at the end of his beat, and butted with quick
step against the bitter wind, approaching
the gateway--and his doom.  He had just
passed the opening when a few inches of
steel glinted in the starlight.  There was a
stifled groan, a sigh.  The rightful owner
of the watch was avenged.

Three minutes later Milosh rejoined the
little group that was waiting a couple of
hundred yards below.

"Well?" old Marco inquired in a whisper.

"It is well, old friend.  The way is clear."


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   V

.. vspace:: 2

During the scout's absence, Burton had
become acutely conscious of the bruises
which he had almost forgotten.  He dreaded
lest his aching body should not be equal to
the strain of a fight against odds.  But he
resolutely turned his mind from his own
condition, and set himself to concert a plan
of action with old Marco and Captain Enderby.

They decided that while the attack was
proceeding Nuta should remain with the
cart.  If it succeeded, she would be brought
up to the tower; if it failed, and the enemy
made their appearance, the possession of
Captain von Hildenheim should serve as
security for the safety of herself and Enderby.
A threat to shoot him would no doubt
induce his party to come to terms.  The
expression on the woman's face as she took
Enderby's revolver was sufficient guarantee
that she would not fail in the part assigned
to her.

Five minutes after the return of Milosh
the little party set off on their adventurous
enterprise.

"Good luck, old man!" said Enderby,
as Burton took his leave.  "Sorry I can't
be with you, but we'll meet again before long."

They stole up the road in single file,
Milosh leading, followed by old Marco,
Burton, and the boy in succession.  Reaching
the wall, they crept along its shadow to
the gateway, noiselessly entered the
enclosure, and, after a swift glance around,
sped towards the tower.  The clank of
bridles and the pawing of hoofs did not
alarm them; Milosh had already explained
that the horses had been placed in the large
chamber that formed the ground floor.  To
this there was no longer a door, but through
the vacant doorway came a faint glint of light.

At the entrance they halted, and peered
in.  Ranged along the wall to the right
stood the horses, which, scenting strangers,
moved restlessly.  In the left corner the
rays of a lamp fell through an open
trap-door above, lighting a rough wooden
staircase.  From the upper room came the sound
of voices mingled with snores.  At the
uneasy movements of the horses the conversation
ceased for a moment.  A head appeared
at the edge of the trap-door, and a rough
voice ordered the animals to be quiet, as
one might tell a dog to "lie down."  Another
voice from behind sleepily asked a question.
The first man replied, and withdrew from the
opening.  Then the low-toned conversation
was resumed.

There being but one entrance to the
tower, and but one gateway in the wall,
the single sentry whom Milosh had
disposed of had no doubt been considered a
sufficient guard; but old Marco had decided,
leaving nothing to chance, to post his
grandson at the doorway, to keep watch outside
and give the alarm if any sudden
interference should threaten.  The boy grasped
manfully the revolver given him, and stood
against the wall out of the ray of light.

The others slipped silently across the room
to the staircase.  At its foot they halted a
moment, looking up towards the trap-door.
The staircase was clearly a rickety affair.
Some of the treads were missing; the
handrail and balusters which had formerly edged
it on the outer side were now wholly
removed.  Signing to his companions to move
carefully, Milosh began to ascend.

At his first step there was an ominous
creak, masked, however, by a renewed stir
among the horses.  The old Serb and Burton
followed in turn, treading as lightly as they
could.  Milosh was half-way up when,
stepping over a gap, his foot came down heavily
on the stair above, and the timber emitted
a loud groan.  The voices above ceased;
then a gruff voice in the Bulgarian tongue
muttered: "What was that?"  Milosh
hurried his ascent.  A shadow fell on the
men below him; something had moved at
the edge of the trap-door.  A cry of alarm
ended in an inarticulate gasp; for the
second time that night a Serbian knife had
taken toll of the national enemy.

There was a loud shout from behind the
fallen man, followed by confused cries from
the awakened sleepers.  Regardless now of
any noise they might make the three men
sprang up the remaining stairs.  A shot
rang out as Milosh flung himself into the
room, with Marco close behind him, and
when Burton stood upon the floor, he found
himself in the thick of a furious *mêlée* that
gave him no time to take in the scene.

Of the men in that upper room, only two
had been awake--the Bulgarian officer and
one of the troopers.  When their conversation
was interrupted by the sounds from
below, the trooper had leant over to see
what was happening.  It was he that had
fallen to Milosh's knife.  The shot had been
fired by the officer, and the other men,
aroused by the noise, had disengaged
themselves from the horse rugs beneath which
they had been sleeping, and were now
crowding in confusion to repel the
unexpected attack.  Only half awake, some of
them had not even seized their arms.
Behind them towered the bulky form of the
second German officer who had led them
earlier in the day.  He alone had his wits
about him.  Shouting orders and curses,
he threw a swift glance at the three intruders,
then sprang to the lamp hanging from a
bracket on the wall, and dashed it to the floor.

But this move, upon which he had calculated
to assist the defence, giving the men
time to collect their sleep-dulled senses and
regain the advantage of numbers, turned in
fact to their undoing.  The darkness lasted
only an instant.  Then Burton whipped out
his electric torch.  The lamp had illuminated
both parties alike; but now the electric
beam dazzled the eyes of the Bulgarians
while leaving their assailants dim and indistinct.

Burton could never afterwards clearly
recall the incidents of the fight.  The hollow
tower rang with shots, fierce shouts, and
even more significant cries.  His one
abiding impression was the Berserker fury of old
Marco.  With knife in one hand and
revolver in the other, the Serb flung himself
upon the foes, his stalwart form seeming to
be everywhere at once.  Even his heroic
ancestor could never have disposed of more
of the traditional enemy in equal time.
Milosh fought with the fury generated by
his recent wrongs, accompanying every
knife-thrust with a yell of triumph.  Some of the
Bulgars threw themselves down, and tried to
crawl towards the trap-door.  But Burton,
holding his ground there, cut off their
escape, and while his torch lit up the scene
for his friends, he assisted them with his
revolver whenever he could do so without
risk to them.

Long as it appeared to those engaged in
it, the struggle was in reality a short one.
Taken unawares, the Bulgars were no match
for their assailants, nerved by desperate
necessity.  At the last, when the din had
somewhat diminished, Burton staggered
under the impact of a large form, and saved
himself from being hurled down the staircase
only by a stiffening of the muscles and
a dexterous back-throw over his thrust-out
knee.  He stooped and grappled his fallen
assailant.

"I surrender!" gurgled a panting voice
in German.

The officer's revolver had slipped from his
grasp at the moment when, tripping over one
of the Bulgars, he lurched against Burton.
The latter kicked it down the staircase.
There was silence now in the upper room.
Burton flashed his torch around it.  Marco
and Milosh stood panting above their
prostrate foes.  It seemed that of all the party
only the German officer was left alive.  But
the electric beam fell on one shivering wretch
cowering behind a trestle table in the far
corner.  Milosh instantly dashed towards
him, and Burton had much ado to persuade
the infuriated Serb that, the officer having
surrendered, the fight was now at an end.
Old Marco had sunk to the floor, exhausted
by his efforts and his wounds, unheeded in
the heat of the strife.  The silence was
broken only by the champing and pawing
of the frightened horses below.

Burton was tying up the prisoners, Milosh
was collecting the arms of the slain, when
old Marco suddenly exclaimed--

"Monsieur, there are only eight!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth
when a shot rang out below, and the boy's
voice shouted an alarm.  Leaving the others
to complete his work, Burton dashed down
the staircase to the doorway, just in time to
see two men sprinting along beyond the wall
in the direction of the waiting cart.  Young
Marco babbled an explanation of their
presence excitedly in his own tongue, but Burton
could not wait for explanations; it was
enough that two of the enemy's party had
been outside the tower, probably *en vedette*
to the south, and were now speeding
towards the north and their main body.  No
doubt they had heard the uproar, guessed
what had happened, and run off to carry the news.

Burton at once dashed after them, anxious
about the safety of his friends at the cart,
even more than about the peril of the whole
party if the enemy's march should be
hastened.  Young Marco flew along at his
heels.  But the fugitives had had too long
a start.  Even the beam of the torch failed
to discover them.  Immediately after the
torch flashed there was the report of a
revolver, and Burton ran at break-neck pace
down the rugged track.  He came to the cart.

"Gone away!" cried Enderby.

"You're not hurt?"

"It was Nuta's revolver.  We heard some
one coming, but didn't know whether friend
or foe until you flashed your torch.  Then I
guessed.  But two men were just on us then;
they swerved to avoid the cart, and dashed
away beyond us there.  The woman was
quick, but it was too dark to aim, and I'm
afraid they've both got clear."

"That's a pity.  They'll report that we've
got the tower, and the Bulgars may swarm
up in an hour or two.  We must get you out
of harm's way."

He made signs to Marco that he wished
the cart to be driven up at once.  The boy
whipped up the oxen, and the vehicle
lumbered away with Hildenheim trudging
disconsolately behind.  At the gate in the
wall they met old Marco.

"Let the woman and the boy go on with
your wounded friend," he said to Burton.
"They cannot help us; why should we
endanger them?  Moreover, they would then
save the goods in my cart."

"As you please," said Burton.  "But you
yourself will hold to your agreement, and
help us to check the enemy as long as we can?"

"Assuredly, and Milosh Nikovich will
remain with me."

But when the matter was put to Nuta,
she resolutely refused to leave the old man.

"It is well, my daughter," he said, laying
his hand on her shoulder.  "We will live or
die together."

This being decided, they resolved to utilise
the cart in the defence of the position.  The
more valuable parts of its load were removed,
together with the British machine-gun, and
carried into the tower.  The cart was then
drawn across the gateway to block it up, and
the oxen were taken some distance away to
the south, and tethered in a bush-covered
dell.  Meanwhile Milosh had cleared the
upper room, and made some effort to obliterate
the traces of the fray.  There the party
took up their quarters.  They were all
utterly weary.  It was perhaps unlikely that
the enemy would arrive before the morning,
but Burton and the two Serbs arranged to
take turns at watching through the night.
What preparations could be made to meet
an attack must be left until at least a partial
rest had restored their exhausted energies.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VI

.. vspace:: 2

There was little conversation during the
night.  Every member of the party was so
fatigued that, when not on watch, he slept
heavily.  Enderby alone was wakeful, from
the pain of his wounds, and he addressed
Burton only in occasional whispers, lest
Hildenheim should overhear him.  The two
German officers conversed in their own
tongue, pitching their voices low; but
neither of the Englishmen understood
German.  At intervals the distant boom
of heavy guns indicated that a night attack
was in progress somewhere to the east.

Before daybreak Burton roused his companions.
It was necessary to lay their plans
in readiness for the expected advance of
the Bulgarian troops.  In company with
old Marco, Burton took stock of their
resources.  They had the weapons of their
enemies--ten rifles with about two thousand
rounds of ammunition, three revolvers with
thirty rounds apiece, their own machine-gun
with three ammunition belts.  There
was a plentiful supply of provisions, but
little fodder for the horses.  Burton was
tempted to make good their escape while
there was yet time; but after a few moments'
reflection he reverted to his purpose of
delaying the enemy's advance to the last
minute of endurance.  The tower, commanding
the narrow track, offered great advantages
to the defence; and guessing that the
Bulgars' advance guard would consist of
cavalry unprovided with artillery, he hoped
to be able to hold his own until help arrived.

The first necessity was to inform the
British general of the anticipated flank
attack.

"Your grandson can ride a horse?" he
asked old Marco.

"Tchk!  The boy sat a horse as soon as
he could walk," replied the old man, with a
laugh.

"Then I want to send him with a note to
our men.  Will you instruct him?"

He wrote in his pocket-book a note
explaining that Captain Enderby, wounded,
with himself and two Serbians, both slightly
wounded, were holding a tower in the hills
some ten miles south of Strumitza.  They
expected to be attacked by a Bulgarian
column moving south-west across the hills
to cut the British line of retreat, and would
hold out as long as possible.  Their greatest
need, if attacked in force, would be
ammunition; and he pointed out that the position
would be hopeless against artillery.  Tearing
the leaf out, he folded it, addressed it to
"Any British Officer," and gave it to Marco,
who tucked it inside his tunic.  As soon as
dawn glimmered the boy mounted one of
the horses and set off, disappearing into the mist.

"We had better take the horses out,"
Burton suggested.  "They will only hamper
us here; besides, we may as well keep them
alive if we can."

On old Marco agreeing, Milosh led the
horses to the dell where the oxen had been
tethered overnight, tied them together, and
hobbled them to heavy fragments of rock.
Meanwhile the others strengthened the cart
barricade, blocked up the entrance to the
tower with stones, broken timber, and other
rubbish, and placed the machine-gun at
a narrow window commanding the track.
Then Burton climbed the ladder leading to
the top of the tower, to examine the country
through his glasses; but the heavy white
mist hid everything from view.  Guns
boomed incessantly; the sounds were little
louder than they had been in the night.  It
was clear that the British retirement was
being conducted without hurry.

When he came down he found that Nuta
had got ready a meal for his party and the
three prisoners.  With these latter, since his
arrival at the tower, he had had no conversation.
Now, however, Captain von Hildenheim addressed him.

"Major Schwartzkopf demands to know
vat you do," he said.  "Ze major shpeak no
English."

Burton glanced at the elder German, who
stared at him with mingled insolence and
sullenness.

"Tell him that I hope before the day is
out to hand him over to the British
provost-marshal," he said.

Hildenheim translated.  The major gurgled
out a rapid sentence.

"You mistake," Hildenheim went on.
"Major Schwartzkopf vish to know vat you
do here."

"That is my business.  If the major has
patience he will see."

The Germans talked together, and Burton
gathered from their smiles that they
supposed him ignorant of the Bulgarian
advance, and flattered themselves that the
tables would soon be turned on him.

When breakfast was finished, Marco asked
Burton to accompany him to the chamber
below.

"Twenty years ago," he said, "when I
was here, we kept a few prisoners in a cellar
below the floor.  Shall we not place our
prisoners there now, for safety's sake?"

"Let us have a look at it," Burton returned.

Scraping away the litter of hay, earth,
and fragments of wood from a corner of the
floor, Marco disclosed a trap-door.  They
lifted this, and Burton descended a short
ladder, Marco following him with an
improvised torch.  They found themselves in
a shallow cellar, stuffy but dry.

"What is this?" exclaimed Marco,
pointing to a number of small wooden boxes
ranged along one wall.  "They were not
here in my time."

The boxes were thickly covered with dust,
and had evidently been long undisturbed.
Burton carefully prised up the lid of one of them.

"It is full of sticks of dynamite!" he
said, astonished.  "A strange find, upon my word!"

.. _`"A strange find, upon my word"`:

.. figure:: images/img-218.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "'A STRANGE FIND, UPON MY WORD!'"

   "'A STRANGE FIND, UPON MY WORD!'"

"And look!" added Marco.  "There is
a tunnel--that was not here either."

In one of the walls was an opening about
four feet high.  Entering this, the two men
groped their way along a straight tunnel
just wide enough for them to pass in single file.

"This must have been made by the
Greeks when they held the tower," the old
man continued.

"For what purpose?  There's nothing in it."

"But there is the dynamite in the cellar
behind.  I think the tunnel must have been
intended for a mine."

"To blow up something outside?  Let us
see in what direction it goes."

A glance at his compass showed him that
the tunnel ran towards the north-east.

"It is plain," said Marco.  "Here at the
end we may be standing beneath the track.
The Greeks intended to blow it up.  I
suppose the necessity passed when the Turks
retreated, and the dynamite was left here
and forgotten.  Perhaps the Greeks who
made the tunnel were killed in the fighting
afterwards."

"Well, this may be a lucky find for us.  We
must see if it does end beneath the track."

Measuring his paces as they returned to
the cellar, he went up, and counted an equal
number from the doorway of the tower,
following the direction of the tunnel as
nearly as he could judge it.  The thirty-second
pace brought him to the wall; there
were still nine more to take.  At the
forty-first he arrived at the centre of the track.

"You were right," he said; "the intention
was clearly to have a means of blowing
up the track.  As you say, an explosion just
there would make it impassable.  This may
be a lucky find for us, my friend.  We must
remove the dynamite to the end of the
tunnel, and make some sort of fuse."

They returned to the tower.  It was now
half-past nine, the mist was thinning, and
before taking in hand the preparation of the
mine, Burton thought it well to make
another survey from the top of the tower.
With Marco he climbed the ladder.  Even
with the naked eye he was able to see,
winding like a serpent across the white plain, a
long column of troops, its rear merging into
the mist.  Through his glasses he
distinguished its composition.  In advance of the
main body of infantry rode squadrons of
cavalry.  Here and there appeared files of
pack-mules.  He handed the glasses to
Marco, whose face gloomed as he watched
the unending stream.

"The mules carry mountain guns," he
said.  "That's bad.  They are coming on
quickly, too.  We shall not have time to
prepare our mine."

But as they went down again, to make
final preparations for meeting the impending
attack, an idea occurred to him.  Taking
Marco to the lower floor, he said in English, loud
enough to be heard by the prisoners above--

"A bomb would blow us all to smithereens.
I had no idea there was so much
dynamite there."

The Germans instantly rose to the bait.
They could be heard in excited discussion
above.  Waiting a few minutes to allow his
words to produce their full effect, Burton
returned to the upper room.  The officers
broke off their conversation and looked at
him uneasily.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Hildenheim
at length, hesitatingly.  "You shpeak
of dynamite?"

"I did, yes--there is a considerable
quantity in the cellar below."

Looking very grave, Hildenheim translated
to his companion, whose alarm found
vent in impassioned volubility.

"Major Schwartzkopf protests viz
indignation," Hildenheim went on.  "Ve are
prisoners--so; but ze law of nations do not
permit zat prisoners be confined in a place
of danger."

"Danger, gentlemen!  It was you who
chose this place.  What danger do you
anticipate?"

"Our allies ze Bulgars zis vay come.  Not
understand?  Zey attack zis place.  Ve sit
on high explosive below; ze Bulgars shoot
high explosive above; ve are blowed to--vat
you call it?--schmiddereens!"

"Surely your allies love you too well;
they will not subject you to such risks."

"I know not so much about zat.  Zey
love us--yes; but if it is zeir duty zey blow
us up all ze same."

"We shall all be in the same boat, then.
But perhaps you have something to suggest?"

"It is ze law of nations zat you keep us safe."

"You are quite safe so far as we are
concerned.  Obviously I cannot remove you.
If your friends shell us--well!"

"But you can remove ze dynamite.  You
can take it out, inter it, shuck it into--vat
you call it?--a gully."

"We haven't time for that.  But I have
an idea.  There is a long tunnel leading from
the cellar.  If you and your companions care
to carry the dynamite to the farther end of
the tunnel, it will be out of harm's way so
far as the tower is concerned."

"Zat is not ze vork of German officers."

"No; quite so.  If I were you I wouldn't
do it.  But, as you may have gathered, I
intend to hold the tower as long as I can.
Your cavalry is already on the move.  It
will not be long before they attack.  If you
care to remove the dynamite, you may stay
in the cellar until--until I fetch you out.
Otherwise you will remain here."

The Germans consulted.

"Ze Herr Major agree, viz protest," said
Hildenheim presently.

"Agrees!  To what?"

"To move ze dynamite--vat you ask."

"I beg your pardon, I ask nothing.  You
will do as you please.  I said if I were
you----"

"Ach!  Ze Herr Major agree all ze same,"
interrupted Hildenheim, eagerly.

"Very well."

The Germans struggled to their feet.

"You shall unbind our arms," said Hildenheim.

"When you are in the cellar.  Watch
your footing as you go down."

He preceded them down the stairs.  When
the three men were in the cellar he left
them his torch to work by, instructing
them to carry the boxes to the end of the tunnel.

It was necessary to devise a train for
exploding the dynamite at the pinch of
necessity.  Having no gunpowder this was
a difficulty until Marco hit on a method.
He bade Nuta bring some cotton cloths and
some jars of grease that were among their
belongings in the cart.  The cloths he asked
her to tear up into thin strips, and then to
soak thoroughly with the grease.  By knotting
these strips together she could make, he
hoped, a match as long as the tunnel.

There was no time to test it, or to judge
how quickly it would burn.  Scarcely ten
minutes after the woman had begun her
task Burton saw, from the loophole at which
the machine-gun had been placed, the head
of the enemy column appear on the track
within effective rifle range.  It consisted of a
half-troop of cavalry, and was moving with
cautious slowness.  In another minute it
came to a halt.  Two officers in front held a
consultation.  One of them peered through
his glasses at the silent tower.  Their attitude
suggested uncertainty.  The lack of signals
from the tower must have apprised them
that their friends were not in possession of
it; but the information conveyed by the
men who had escaped overnight was necessarily
vague, and they were ignorant whether
the position was held by their foes, or had
been abandoned.

At the window, but out of sight of the
enemy, Burton and the two Serbs watched
them keenly.  Enderby had been placed at
the remote end of the room, behind a
barricade of timber, accoutrements, and rugs.
In the last few moments Burton had
discussed with him whether it would be well to
open a parley with the enemy, and announce
his intention of disputing their passage.

"My advice is to the contrary," said
Enderby.  "Deeds, not words.  A shot will
tell them all you wish them to know."

The consultation on the track came to an
end, and the horsemen began to move
forward slowly.  Two of them, one apparently
an officer, rode a little in advance of the
rest.  When they were still about half a
mile distant, Marco raised his rifle to his
shoulder and fired.  Apparently he missed,
for the two men instantly threw themselves
from their horses and took cover among the
rocks at the side of the track.  A bugle
rang out, and all down the column, as far
as it was in sight, the troopers dismounted,
left their horses, and advanced up the track
on foot by short rushes from one patch of
cover to another.

"What will they do?" Burton asked
himself.  He tried to put himself mentally
in their position.  All the information they
could have was that the tower was in enemy
hands.  They could not know who its captors
were, or how many they numbered.  No
doubt they would suppose that the patrol
had fallen to a superior force, but they
would infer that this force was a
comparatively small one, since it was already
clear that no attempt was to be made to
dispute their passage on the track itself.
Their natural course would be to feel the
strength of the garrison, and perhaps to
refrain from throwing themselves against a
strong defensive position until they had
brought up guns to bombard it.  The wild
and rugged nature of the ground made rapid
movement difficult, and Burton hoped that
the inevitable delay would not only enable
the British Army to secure its retirement,
but would also give time for the dispatch
of a light force to bring off himself and his
party.  The latter event he did not count
on; it might prove to be impracticable; in
that case he could only look forward to the
ultimate capture or destruction of the tower.
It was his resolve to hold up the enemy till
the last possible moment; if surrender were
then necessary to save Nuta and Captain
Enderby, he would at least have the
satisfaction of duty well done.

Up to the present Marco's shot had been
the only one fired.  The two Serbs, if left
to themselves, would have aimed again and
again at the Bulgars, of whom they caught
glimpses as they darted from rock to rock.
But Burton prevailed on them to withhold
their fire.

"They don't know exactly how we are
placed," he said to Marco, "and we may as
well keep them ignorant as long as possible.
They are bound to leave cover if they mean
to attack us; then will be our chance."

The position gave incomparable advantages
to the defence.  Standing on a spur
of the hillside, the tower could be assailed
only from the track; its rear face
overhung a precipitous cliff which not even a
goat could scale.  For more than a hundred
yards from the tower the track was wholly
devoid of cover; the declivity on the one
side and the high jagged ground on the
other equally forbade an encircling
movement.  Burton's hope grew high as he
weighed the chances for and against him.

The enemy had crept up to within about
three hundred yards of the tower.  The next
fifty yards of the track were exposed, then
there was a break in the bank in which they
could find cover among low boulders and
stunted bushes.  It was at this point that
they would first come in sight of the wall
surrounding the tower enclosure.  Burton
concluded that as their mission was urgent,
they would not wait the arrival of their
artillery, which no doubt they had sent
for at the first alarm, but would dash along
the exposed portions of the track, shelter
themselves temporarily below the wall, and
then endeavour to carry the position with a
rush.  The gateway was blocked by the
cart, but the wall could easily be scaled, and
the slender defences of the tower entrance
would yield in a few minutes.  It was of
prime importance, therefore, that the enemy
should be prevented from reaching the wall.
The track was wide enough for four or
five men to move abreast.  By means of the
machine-gun, Burton could mow the enemy
down if they advanced in mass; but having
very little ammunition for it, he had decided
to use it only as a last resource.  In the early
stages of the impending action he must
depend on rifle fire, and he realised that, with
no more than three rifles, a great deal
depended on the extent to which the enemy
could be intimidated.  Personally he was
at a disadvantage in respect of his
unfamiliarity with the Bulgarian rifle.  Marco
had explained to him the sighting
arrangements, which were adjusted to the metre
scale; but he recognised that his first shots
would be experimental.  At short range he
could hardly fail of success.

Some minutes passed; the enemy gave no
sign of movement.

"Keep your eye upon them, while I go
and see how the prisoners are getting on with
their work," said Burton to Marco.

He went down to the cellar, observing on
the way that Nuta had completed a large
coil of the cotton rope.  The Bulgar was
staggering into the tunnel with the last of
the boxes of dynamite.  Hildenheim was
donning his tunic, which he had stripped off
for the sake of ease in working.  From the
coolness and the unsoiled appearance of
Major Schwartzkopf, Burton inferred, with
secret amusement, that that officer had not
put himself to any exertion.

"I zink I hear a shot, sir," said Hildenheim.

"I thought so too," rejoined Burton.
"But we are not engaged with your friends
yet, and as I see that all the dynamite is
removed, you are safe here--for the present."

"So!  I know ze Bulgar language.  Ven
our allies haf ze tower taken, I vill haf much
pleasure to--vat you call it?"

"Interpret for us?  Thank you, captain.
I am sure you are anxious to be useful."

The dull reports of two rifle-shots recalled
him.  As he closed down the trap-door, he
heard Schwartzkopf guffaw.  Springing up
the stairs he rushed to the window, where
the Serbs were now firing steadily, seized his
rifle, and looked down the track.  A small
party of the enemy had broken cover, and
were rushing uphill in irregular formation.
Several had already fallen; one dropped to
Burton's first shot; but the rest gained the
cover of the stunted bushes before mentioned.

"How many have got through?" asked Burton.

"About half-a-dozen," Marco replied.

"They haven't answered your fire?"

He had hardly spoken when a hail of
bullets pattered on the stone walls.  Some
had come from the advanced party in the
bushes, some from their comrades concealed
farther down the track.  One flew through
the window, and struck the wall a few feet
above Enderby's head.  The three men drew back.

"It is clear they have discovered where
we are firing from," said Burton.  "We had
better give them the next shots from the
roof.  There are loopholes in the parapet."

They climbed up the ladder, and, kneeling
behind the parapet, peered through the
loopholes.  For some minutes the enemy
continued to fire at the window without exposing
themselves.  Presently, under cover of their
shots, a second party, larger than the first,
emerged from the rocks far down the track,
and ran up to join their fellows hidden among
the bushes.  Instantly the three men opened
fire; one after another the Bulgars fell, but
eight or nine reached shelter in safety.  The
enemy's fire redoubled in violence;
apparently they supposed that the defenders were
shooting both from the window and from the
roof, for Enderby called up that bullets were
flying into the room, and at the same time
splinters of stone were struck from the parapet.

Suddenly the firing ceased.  Burton, looking
through his glasses, saw reinforcements
hurrying up along the track far below.
Clearly the attack was to be pressed, and the
worst was yet to come.  So far he was well
satisfied.  The enemy had been held up for
more than an hour; every minute gained
might be of priceless service to the British
forces.  Every now and again the dull boom
of artillery from the south told him that his
comrades were still fighting a rearguard
action against heavy odds.  To prevent the
enlargement of those odds was worth any
sacrifice.

Burton realised that as yet he had had to
deal with only a small advanced guard.  The
fight would take on quite a different
complexion when the main body now pressing
forward came into action.  There was no
sign of irresolution in the enemy.  Even
though he should sweep the track twice or
thrice with the machine-gun, they would
then discover that his ammunition was
expended, and three rifles would avail nothing
against the numbers who would pour
upwards to the assault.  It was time to
prepare to play his last card--to light the train
which, after an unknown interval, would
explode the dynamite and render the track
impassable.  The tower was doomed.  If
not carried by assault, it would be
shattered as soon as artillery was brought to
bear on it.  But even though it were
destroyed, and all in it, the destruction of the
track would delay the enemy for many hours,
and his object would be gained.

He inferred, and rightly, as it proved, that
the lull would continue until the enemy had
come up in sufficient strength to burst
through at all costs.  But there was no
time to spare, especially as so much
uncertainty attended the action of the mine.
Leaving the two Serbs to keep watch,
Burton went below.  Nuta was still
knotting the lengths of cloth, but he saw at a
glance that the coil she had completed would
suffice.  He made her understand by signs
that she was to follow him to the cellar,
carrying the revolver.

The eager looks with which the prisoners
met him bespoke their confidence that he
had come to beg their intercession with
victorious Bulgarians.  They were
immediately undeceived.

"I am going to fire the dynamite," he
said.  "This place will no longer be safe
for you.  You must quit the tower.  Follow
my instructions to the letter.  When you
leave the entrance, you will cross the
enclosure to the wall on the south side, climb
it, and go as far along the track southward
as you please.  If you attempt to move in
the opposite direction you will instantly be
shot.  That is quite clear?"

Hildenheim's looks had grown blacker
and blacker as Burton spoke.

"It is a trick!" he burst out in a voice
hoarse with rage.  "It is against ze law of
nations.  Zere shall be reprisals.  You make
var prisoners vork to blow up zeir allies;
you----"

"Nothing of the sort," Burton interrupted
sharply.  "You removed the dynamite for
your own safety; you are at liberty to bring
it back, and take the consequences.  You
must decide at once."

This reduced the German to silence.

"Was giebt es?" asked Schwartzkopf,
evidently puzzled by the captain's agitation.

When Hildenheim had explained, the
major came to a decision with great alacrity.
It would be absurd to reject the chance of
escaping with a whole skin.  There was a
short excited colloquy between the two
Germans.  Then Hildenheim sullenly
announced their acquiescence, and they
followed Burton and the woman up the stairs.
When a passage had been opened in the
entrance, the three prisoners made to issue
together.

"Not so fast--one at a time, if you please,"
said Burton, anxious not to leave the tower
himself.  "The major first; turn to the
right, that's your way.  The woman will
escort you."

At another time he might have been
amused at the sight of the German hastening
towards the wall with an effort to maintain
his dignity, Nuta following with pointed
revolver a couple of yards behind.  But the
situation was too tense for amusement.  He
was on thorns; at any moment warning shots
might recall him to his post, and the mine
had still to be completed.  The instant the
Bulgar, last of the three, reached the wall,
Burton hurried into the cellar.  He laid the
cotton train on the floor of the tunnel,
kindling its nearer end.  At the farther end
he upturned the open box of dynamite,
placed a few cartridges at the extremity of
the train, and packed the remaining boxes
closely one upon another, so that the space
between the floor and the roof was
completely blocked.  Then with feverish haste
he scraped up loose earth from the floor,
and dug stones out of the wall with his knife,
and heaped them up against the boxes, so
as to minimise the effect of the explosion
towards the cellar.  On his return he saw
that the cotton appeared to be burning
satisfactorily, and regained the roof of the
tower after an absence of little more than
twenty minutes.

The situation had apparently not changed.
All was quiet.  None of the enemy in the
vicinity of the tower were in sight, but the
columns were steadily rolling up the track
in the far distance.  A little later, however,
there was a sudden rush from behind the
rocks, accompanied by a hot fusillade.
Bulgarian infantry swarmed up the track, and
though many of them fell to the three rifles,
many more got through, stumbling over the
bodies of the fallen, and joined their
comrades in the shelter of the bushes.  Nuta
had come up, and as the rifles became hot,
she replaced them with fresh weapons.

The enemy advanced in an unending
stream for five or six minutes.  The crackle
of rifle shots mingled with shouts and
screams.  Then at the blast of a whistle all
movement ceased.

Burton calculated that at least sixty men
had run the gauntlet and were now waiting
among the bushes.  Only about a hundred
yards of open track separated them from
the wall of the enclosure.  To check the
coming dash with three rifles would be
impossible.  Would the explosion in the tunnel
happen in time?  He dared not go below
again to see how the train was burning, nor
could any one else be spared.  Suppose the
mine failed?  The rush must be checked
somehow; nothing but the machine-gun
would avail.

Leaving the Serbs on the roof, Burton
went down into the room, and placed himself
at the gun.

He had not long to wait.  A whistle
sounded shrilly.  The men dashed from the
cover of the bushes and poured up towards
the tower, shouting and cheering.  Behind
them their comrades opened fire from the
rocks.  Burton held his hand for a few
seconds.  Then, when the foremost rank had
covered about half the distance, the machine-gun
rapped out a hail of bullets.  In a few
seconds the track was swept clear as by an
invisible scythe.

Silence fell again.  It was clear that the
enemy had not reckoned with a machine-gun,
for though, taking advantage of the
charge, another body of men had rushed
up to the bushes from the rear, they made
no attempt to advance farther.

Minute by minute passed.  Except for
occasional sniping, the enemy took no action.
But the lull seemed ominous, and Burton
remained keenly on guard, keeping a look-out
from behind the shield of the machine-gun.

"I don't like it," he said to Enderby once.
"There isn't much doubt that they have
sent word to their gunners, and we shall
soon have shells hurtling upon us.  There
may be just time to carry you down and
put you in safety beyond the tower."

"Nonsense!" Enderby returned.  "It
makes me sick to be idling here.  I won't
go and keep your Germans company.  My
arms are sound enough, and, hang it all!  I
won't stand this any longer.  Lift me out,
and give me a rifle."

"No, no!  Anything rather than that.
At this window you'd be potted to a
certainty.  Perhaps it's better as it is, for if
you were outside, and the rest of us were
smashed, you couldn't get away."

"And I'd rather peg out than fall a
prisoner to those German-led Bulgars.  Don't
worry, old chap!"

"That wretched mine must have failed,"
said Burton, presently.  "Nuta must go
and relight the train."

But just as he was rising to call her, he
noticed something far down the track that
caused him to drop back again.

"They're smuggling a machine-gun into
position!" he cried.

He had caught a glimpse of the barrel
projecting over a ledge of rock.  With
instant decision he trained his own gun upon
it, and before it could open fire, he pumped
out a hail of lead that struck it from its
position, and the men serving it, in spite of
their shield, were killed or disabled either by
direct shots, ricochets, or splinters.

"One belt empty!" he said, as he
replaced it with a full one.  "By George!
Now we're in for it!"

He had heard the characteristic scream of
a shell.  Immediately afterwards there was
a terrific explosion, and he saw a tall column
of smoke, stones, and dust shoot into the air
from the rocks not two hundred yards away.
In another half-minute another shell
exploded, a little nearer.

"They must be 'phoning the range," he
said.  "Look here, Enderby, I must get you
out of it.  I can't leave the machine-gun
now, but the Serbs must carry you away.
Marco Kralevich!" he shouted.

The old man hurried down.

"They'll have the range in a few minutes,"
said Burton.  "I want you and your friend
to carry Captain Enderby out along the
track yonder, towards where the prisoners
are.  Take your daughter, too.  When you
come back, go down into the cellar and
relight the train; it must have gone out.
They will smash the tower; the only chance
of holding them up is to explode the mine.
Make haste, for Heaven's sake!"

Marco summoned Nuta and Milosh from
the roof.  They lifted Enderby, and were
half-way down the stairs with him when the
Bulgarian gunners made their first hit.  A
shell carried away a corner of the parapet.
The tower shook under the explosion, and
the falling masonry plunged into the
enclosure, raising a dense cloud of dust.  Burton
trembled for the safety of his friends, but his
thoughts were taken from them by a
renewed movement among the enemy.
Immediately after the crash, the men concealed
in the bushes sprang out, and dashed
forward with a cheer.  They would have been
wiser to wait.  Burton saw them indistinctly
through the dust, but he had the range to a
yard, and again they melted away under his
withering fire.

Shells were now bursting around the tower.
There was another crash above; fragments of
stone fell into the room, striking Burton in
many places.  It was a moment of racking
anxiety.  He dared not leave the gun until
the track had been destroyed, yet the tower
might crumple down upon him.  His
ammunition was running short--would Marco get
back in time?  Even if he relit the train,
would the flame reach the explosives?  And
at that crisis he nerved himself for what
must be regarded as a supreme act of
self-sacrifice.  If all else failed, at the last
moment he must go himself into the cellar,
and fire into the charge.

Deafened by the explosions that now
recurred every few seconds, smothered in dust,
struck by fragments of stone, half choked by
fumes, he still held his place at the window.
The enemy had learnt a lesson.  They kept
out of sight.  Before long the guns would
have done their work, and when the tower
was in ruins the way would be clear.

"They won't charge again till we're
smashed," he thought.  "Now for it!"

Taking his rifle, he hurried down the
stairs.  At the trap-door he halted a moment.
He knew the risk he was about to run.  His
work in the tunnel had been so hurried that
the backward force of the explosion could
not be wholly checked.  He was taking his
life in his hands; but it was the last hope.
He gathered himself together.  His foot was
on the first step when he was brought to a
halt by a rifle shot below.  The next instant
he was hurled back by a terrific concussion,
and fell, an immense noise dinning in his
ears.  For a moment he lay dazed.

"Marco must have done it!" he said to
himself as he staggered to his feet.

Down into the cellar he sprang, gasping in
the noisome fumes.  His electric torch, still
gleaming, lay on the floor.  Near the mouth
of the tunnel he saw the heroic old Serb
prostrate.  He rushed to him, stooped over
him.  Was he yet alive?  Burton could not
tell.  Exerting almost superhuman strength
he managed to hoist the big man to his
back, and staggered with him across the
cellar, up the steps, and across the floor.
Almost broken down under the weight of his
burden, he was just reaching the entrance
when there was an appalling crash.  The
tower tottered and collapsed, and the two
men fell together.

.. _`A PERILOUS MOMENT`:

.. figure:: images/img-243.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: A PERILOUS MOMENT

   A PERILOUS MOMENT


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VII

.. vspace:: 2

When Burton came to himself, it was to
find an officer in khaki, with the red cross
of the R.A.M.C. on his sleeve, bending over him.

"That's all right!" said a cheery voice.
"He'll do now!"

"Where am I?  Where's Marco?" Burton asked faintly.

"The old Serb?  Don't worry about him.
He has concussion, but he's a tough old boy,
and we'll pull him through."

"And the Bulgars?"

"Toiling like niggers to make a new track
a mile from here.  It's all right.  Take this
morphine tablet.  You shall hear all you
want to know, twenty-four hours from now.
Rather hard luck to be knocked out twice in
one day, I must say."

Young Marco, after long wandering and
losing his way several times, had lighted on
a part of the British rearguard and delivered
his note, which passed from a subaltern
through his company commander and colonel
until it came to the hands of the brigadier.
An examination of the map decided that
officer to dispatch a regiment of light cavalry
to the tower.  They reached it some ten
minutes after it fell, having heard the
outlines of the story from Captain Enderby,
whom they met a few hundred yards away,
keeping an eye on the three prisoners, as he
said with a smile.  Milosh and Nuta, who
were returning to the tower when the
explosion occurred, had narrowly escaped burial
in the ruins.  Rushing forward through the
smoke and dust, they had found the two men
unconscious but alive, protected by the only
half-destroyed arch of the entrance.

The shelling had ceased with the fall of
the tower; the track had been rendered
utterly impassable by the explosion of the
mine; and before the enemy were aware of
the presence of the British cavalry, and their
guns again came into play, the regiment had
withdrawn with Burton, his party and the
prisoners, and were well on their way to the
British lines.

The value of the defence of the tower was
handsomely acknowledged by the brigadier.
It had saved his rearguard.  The Serbs were
compensated for the loss of their belongings
in the abandoned cart, and young Marco,
besides presents given him by the British
officers, found himself the happy possessor of
innumerable souvenirs from the men.  Old
Marco, who soon recovered, received special
commendation and reward for his heroism
in firing the mine at the risk of his life.  As
for Burton, no one was more surprised than
he when he learnt that his name had been
sent in for the V.C.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MISSING PLATOON`:

.. _`246`:

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter V Heading`:

.. figure:: images/img-246.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Chapter V Heading

   Chapter V Heading

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large

   THE MISSING PLATOON

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   I

.. vspace:: 2

Burton rode at an easy jog trot, smoking
a cigarette.  He had a day off, and by way
of recreation had borrowed a horse to visit
the battery for which he had done a good
deal of "spotting," but which he had not
yet seen.  His only communication with it
had been by wireless from the air.

It was a fine spring afternoon--rather
ominously fine, he thought, for the sunlight
had that liquid brightness which often
preludes dirty weather.  Dust flew in clouds
from the white road before the gusty wind.
From somewhere ahead came the booming
of guns, and now and then he saw bursts of
smoke above the trenches a few miles away.

He came to a solitary house at the
roadside.  It was partly demolished; but in the
doorway, flanked by a solid wall of
sandbags, a subaltern was standing.  Burton
reined up.

"Officers' quarters of No. 6?" he asked
laconically.

"The same," was the reply.

"My name's Burton: thought I'd come
over and have a look at you."

"You're the chap, are you?  Well, I'll
take you round.  They're all in the
gun-pits, waiting orders.  Take your horse
round to the back: we get pip-squeaks
here occasionally."

Having placed the horse in safety,
Burton accompanied his guide across the
road, through what had once been a
market-garden, to a turfy mound resembling a
small barrow, such as may be seen here and
there in the south of England.  But this
mound in France was obviously not an
ancient burial-place.  There was something
recent and artificial in its appearance.  A
deep drain encircled it, and on its western
side there was a small opening, like the
entrance to an Eskimo hut.

"Here we are," said his guide, Laurence
Cay, second lieutenant.  "Mind your head."

Burton stooped and entered.  He found
himself in a spacious chamber, dimly lit
through the doorway and the hurdles
stretched across the farther end.  To him,
coming from the brilliant sunlight, the
interior was at first impenetrably dark; but
as his eyes became accustomed to the
dimness, he saw the gun, clean, silent, on a bed
of concrete; rows of shells placed in
recesses in the walls; and the opening of a
tunnel.

"That leads to our dug-out," said Cay.
"We'll find some one there."

A few steps through the tunnel brought
them to a large cave-like room, furnished
with table and chairs, four bunks and a
store cupboard.  Two officers were taking
a late luncheon.

"Let me introduce Burton, V.C., D.S.O.,
one of our spotters," said Cay.  "Captain
Adams, Mr. Mortimer."

"Hullo, Burton?  So it's you.  How
d'ye do?" said the captain, shaking hands.
"Haven't seen you for an age.  Have a
drink?"

"A cosy little place, this," said Burton,
as he quaffed a mug of cider.

"H'm!  Pretty fair.  We're proof against
anything but a 'Jack Johnson.'  They
haven't discovered us yet.  We've had a
few pip-squeaks and four-twos, by accident.
We make better practice, I think."

"You missed a chance this morning."

"How's that?"

"Well, that mill, you know, just across the
way--the Huns' divisional headquarters."

"Across the way!  It's five miles--and a
hill between!"

Burton, who knew Captain Adams of old,
ignored the interruption.  It was an easy
amusement to "draw" Adams.

"With a little promptitude, and--h'm--accuracy,
you might have bagged the whole
lot; and who knows if Big or Little Willy
mightn't have been there on a visit?  But
you were so slow getting to work that they
all got away--except the cooks."

"But, hang it all!  I gave the order
'Battery action' one second after we got
the first call from O.P. and...."

"Yes, but your first shell plugged into a
cabbage patch half a mile to the left."

"O.P. reported 300 yards," snorted the
captain indignantly.

"Wanted to spare your feelings, old man.
As I was saying, it only scared the Huns and
gave them time to clear out.  The second
shell was just about as far to the right:
demolished a pigsty."

"Come now, how the deuce do you know that?"

"Well, the divisional cooks started to
make sauerkraut and sausage----"

At this point Adams noticed that his
subalterns were writhing with the effort to
contain their laughter; and perceiving at
last that he was being "chipped," he
caught Burton by the collar and hurled
him towards one of the bunks.  This was
the opening move of a scrimmage which
might have continued until both were
breathless had not Adams suddenly remembered
himself.

"Gad, Burton, this won't do!" he said.
"Bad example to those young innocents"
(indicating the subalterns).  "Quite like old
times at school, eh?  But really----"

"How long have you been a captain, Adams?"

"Gazetted a fortnight ago; it came
through orders a week later.  Must give up
skylarking now, you know.  Have another
drink."

They sat down, compared notes, talked
over old times: the conversation became
general.

"Trench raids are becoming more
common," said Cay presently.  "You heard
what happened the other day?"

"What was that?"

"The better part of a platoon of the
Rutlands is missing.  They hold the
trenches in front of us, you know.  Well,
they got up a night raid, and penetrated
the Huns' first line: came back with a
handful of prisoners and no casualties to
speak of.  But when they took stock,
something over forty men of this platoon were
missing."

"They went too far, I suppose, and were
cut off.  Very bad luck."

"If they're prisoners!  Whatever
happens to me, I hope I shan't be a prisoner.
These raids are the order of the day now;
I suppose they're useful.  At any rate they
give our fellows something to do."

At this moment Burton started as the
words "Battery action" came from
somewhere in a roar like that of a giant.

"Megaphone!" cried Adams, jumping up.

The officers rushed into the gun-pit.  The
men who had been working outside came
racing in.  In a few moments another order
was shouted through a megaphone by the
man in the telephone room--a shell-proof
cave hard by.  "Target M--one round
battery fire."

Captain Adams took up a map of the
German trenches, and with a rapidity that
amazed Burton, angles and fuses were
adjusted, and in a few seconds a shell went
whistling and screaming towards its invisible
target miles away.  Cay had gone to the
wireless instrument in the corner, and sat
with the receiving telephones at his ears.

"Range right; shell dropped quarter-mile
to the left," he called presently.

New adjustments were made; the gun
fired again.

"How's that?" asked Adams.

It seemed only a few seconds before Cay,
repeating the message he had received from
the invisible aeroplane scouting aloft,
replied: "Got him!"  A moment later he
added: "New battery----"  He broke off:
the burring of the instrument had ceased.
He tried to get into communication again,
but failed.  "Ask O.P. if they've seen
the 'plane," he called to the telephonist.
Presently came the answer: "Went out of
sight behind a wooded hill.  Afraid a Hun
'Archie' has brought it down."

Meanwhile the order "Break off" had
been received.  The immediate task of the
battery was accomplished.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   II

.. vspace:: 2

The officers returned to their dug-out.

"Your colleague hasn't had your luck,
Burton," said Adams.  "It's more than a
pity.  He had evidently spotted a fresh
battery.  The Huns will have time to
conceal it unless some one else spots it and
tips us the wink."

They went outside and scanned the sky.
No aeroplane was in sight.

"I think I'd better go up," said Burton.
"I'm off duty to-day, but it would be a pity
to lose the chance.  The new battery must
have been visible from where he saw your
target.  I ought to be able to find it if I go
at once."

"A good idea!  We might smash it before
it gets to work.  You'd better 'phone
your flight commander.  I'll lend you my
trench map."

Burton hurried to the telephone room.
In a few minutes he returned.

"O.K.," he said, "but I'll have to go
alone.  My observer's away, and there's no
one else handy."

"That's awkward.  You can't pilot and
work the wireless too."

"Perhaps not, but if I can spot the
battery I can return with my observer
to-morrow, and then we'll be able to set you to
work on it."

"Good!  You've seen what we can do."

"Well, not exactly seen; but apparently
it wasn't a pigsty this time.  Look out for
me in an hour or so."

He returned to the house, remounted,
and rode back rapidly to the aerodrome.
There he explained the circumstances at
greater length to his flight commander, set
the mechanics to work, and within ten
minutes was ready to start.

"We're in for a storm, I fancy," said his
commander as he got into his place; "but
perhaps you'll be back before it breaks."

The weather had gradually changed.
The sky had become thick, the air was sultry
and oppressive.  As Burton climbed in a
wide spiral it was like going from a Turkish
bath into the cooling room, fresh and
exhilarating.  He circled over the aerodrome
until he had attained an altitude of six or
seven thousand feet, then steered towards
the German lines, still rising steadily.  The
spot for which he was making was four or
five miles away.  Soon the bewildering
network of the British trenches glided away
beneath him.  Then the German trenches came
into view.  On the roads behind he noticed
tiny black specks moving this way and
that--supply wagons, no doubt, or motor-cars
bringing up fresh men.

The whirr of his engine was broken into
by something like the sound of a pop-gun.
He looked around; a woolly ball of smoke
hung in the air on his right.  Immediately
afterwards there were more pops, and the
ball became the centre of a cluster.  Burton
swerved to the left, then dodged a long roll
of greenish-yellow smoke with a red tongue
of flame in the centre.  The German
"Archies" were at work.  He flew on,
swinging from side to side, until he
calculated that he was about three miles behind
the front line of trenches.  Then he turned
at right angles and commenced a methodical
search of the ground stretched like a
patchwork quilt below him.  Here was a brown
patch of plough-land, then a blob of vivid
green denoting grass, or one of green speckled
with white--an orchard in the blossom of
spring.  In the distance the silvery streak
of a river pursued its winding way.  A train
was rolling across it, like a toy train on a toy
bridge.

A dark mass below him broke apart,
resolving itself into individual dots.  "Afraid
of bombs," he thought.  At the spot where
the centre of the crowd had been, the ground
appeared to be blackened.  "Shouldn't
wonder if that's the missing aeroplane," he
thought.  "It caught fire, or they've burnt
it.  But where's that new battery?  Things
are getting hot."  Shells were bursting all
about him.  Now and then the machine
lurched, and he looked round anxiously to
see the extent of the damage.  A few wires,
perhaps, were hanging loose; a few rents
gaped in the fabric; nothing serious as yet.
But it was getting very uncomfortable.

Up and down he flew, feeling the strain
of doing double work.  With his map
pinned down in front of him he scanned
the ground for some new feature.  Ah!
What is that?  Peering through his glasses
he descries a group of men in suspicious
activity about a clump of bushes.  They
scatter as he passes over.  A shell sets
the machine rocking.  He swings round
and soars over the spot again, even
venturing to descend a few hundred feet.  The
clump is not marked on the map.  What
is that in the middle of it?  The flight
has carried him beyond it before he can
answer the question; but he turns again,
and circles over the place.  There is
something unnatural in the appearance of the
bushes.  The shells are bursting thicker
than ever.  Something cracks just behind
his seat.  But he thrills as he realises that
his reconnaissance has succeeded.  "The
battery is hidden in that clump, or I'm a
Dutchman."

He marked the spot on his map, moved
the elevator, soared aloft, and steered for
home, making a circuit northward to avoid
an anti-aircraft gun that lay directly between
him and the aerodrome.  And now for the
first time he was aware that the threatening
storm was about to burst.  The westerly
wind had increased in force; the sky was
blacker; huge waves of cloud were rolling
eastward.  He flew into the wind and tried
to rise above the clouds.  Suddenly Heaven's
artillery thundered around him; there was
a blinding flash; he was conscious of pain
as though he had received a heavy blow;
then for a while he was lost to all about him.

When he partly recovered his senses and
tried to regain control of the machine he
was in a state of bewilderment.  The
aeroplane was nearly upside down.  He scarcely
knew which was top and which bottom.  He
struggled to right the machine: when he
succeeded, with great creaking of the
controls, he was alarmed to see that he was
within a few hundred feet of the ground,
above a wood.  Exercising all his
self-command he managed to swerve clear of the
tree-tops, and in another moment or two the
machine came to the ground with a bump
that seemed to shake out of place every bone
in his body.

Half dazed, he unstrapped himself with
trembling fingers and scrambled from his
seat.  Rain was pouring in a deluge.  The
sky was black as night.  His feet had just
touched the sodden soil when he became
aware of a number of figures rushing
towards him from the undergrowth.  Fumbling
for his revolver, he was felled by a shrewd
blow.

.. _`THE BRITISH WAY`:

.. figure:: images/img-259.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: THE BRITISH WAY

   THE BRITISH WAY

Again he lost consciousness for a moment.
Then he heard an English voice.

"You silly blighter!  Couldn't you see?"

"He was going to shoot."

"Well, what of it?  He couldn't hit a
haystack.  Didn't you see he was fair
crumpled with the fall?"

"You may talk, but I wasn't going to be
shot in mistake for a bloomin' Hun."

"I tell you any fool could see he was
one of ours.  I was sure of it.  You ought
to have made sure--striking your superior
officer."

"Silence, you men!" called an authoritative
voice.  An officer had come up from
the shelter of the wood.  "The noise you
are making can be heard a mile off.  You'll
bring the whole Hun army down on us."

As a matter of fact, the men had begun
by speaking in stage whispers, their tones
becoming louder and louder in their
excitement as the altercation proceeded.

Burton rose stiffly and painfully to his feet.

"Beg pardon, sir," sheepishly muttered
the man who had knocked him down.  "It's
raining so hard----"

"That's all right," Burton interposed.
"Where am I?"

"It's you, Burton!" said the officer.
"Come among the trees.  You men, lug
the aeroplane in; the rain's so thick that
perhaps the Huns haven't seen where it fell."

"But we're in no danger in our own
lines?" said Burton in surprise.

"We aren't in our own lines," rejoined
the officer, dragging Burton into the wood.
"We're marooned."

"Gad, Hedley, are you the missing platoon?"

"Yes; I'll tell you."

"Let me have a look at the machine
first.  By George!  I thought I was done for."

"It was a narrow squeak.  But you've
always had wonderful luck.  Here's the
machine.  What's the damage?"

Burton examined the aeroplane and gave
a rueful shrug.

"Two holes in the engine cowl, a dozen
in the planes, bracing wires shot away;
they don't cripple her, but the worst thing
is that one of the landing wheels is buckled.
She's useless till that is put right."

"Well, perhaps we can get that done for
you.  You seem as badly crocked as the
machine, and no wonder."

"But tell me, Hedley, where are we?
And how did you get here?"

"Tell you by and by," said Hedley, who
spoke in whispers and showed other signs
of nervous apprehension.  "Come on."

"But I can't leave the machine."

"You must.  We can't take it with us.
It won't be found while the rain lasts."

"I can't fly back unless I get this wheel
straightened."

"All right.  Stanbridge," he said, calling
up a short, sturdily-built corporal, "get that
buckled wheel off.  Quick work!"

"Very good, sir."

"You'll find some tools on board," said Burton.

"And don't make a row," Hedley added.

It was the work of only a few minutes
to detach the wheel.  There was no
conversation; everybody showed nervous
impatience; two or three men kept watch at
the edge of the wood.

"Now then," said Hedley.

He led the way, groping through the
wood.  Burton followed on his heels: he
felt himself a compendium of aches.  Rain
was still falling.  Through it could be seen
the blurred lights of a distant building.  A
short walk brought the party to what
appeared to be a thick hedge of bramble bounding
a field.  There was a whispered challenge.

"Potsdam," whispered Hedley in return,
giving the password.

He turned, took Burton by the arm,
and guided him through an opening which
had suddenly disclosed itself in the bramble
hedge.  A sentry stood aside; the party
filed in.  Burton found himself moving down
a sharp declivity, which by and by opened
out into a spacious cave, lit by a single
candle-lamp.  Two or three men got up
from the stools on which they had been
sitting.  The floor was roughly boarded.
A table stood in the centre.  Along one side
were a number of large wooden bins.

"We sleep on them," said Hedley.
"Rather stuffy quarters, you perceive."

"Concentrated essence of earth and candle
smoke," said Burton, sniffing.

"Also bacon fat and the smell of our
cooker.  Sit down, you shall have something
to eat and drink in a jiffy."

"You won't forget the wheel?"

"No.  Stanbridge, get that wheel put right."

Among any score of British soldiers there
will usually be found a factotum who can
turn his hand to anything.  It was not
otherwise with these men of the Rutland
Light Infantry.  Having seen the work
started, Hedley heaved a sigh of relief.

"Now we can talk," he said.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   III

.. vspace:: 2

"You heard about the night raid?  Well,
we were completely cut off from the rest by
a counter attack, from the flank.  We tried
to bomb our way back, lost heavily, got all
muddled up.  There seemed to be a whole
brigade of Huns between us and our lines,
so the only thing to be done was to give
them the slip, and dodge around in the hope
of finding a weak spot where we might break
through.  There are only twenty-four of us
left.  We managed to keep together, and
were lucky enough to escape the Huns; but
of course we got hopelessly lost.  Just
before daylight, dead beat, we stumbled into
the wood yonder, not caring much what
happened to us.  In the early morning an
old French farmer found us there.  My
hat! we felt pretty bad when he told us
we were deep in the enemy's country, and
a company of Huns billeted in his farm only
half a mile away.  Rummy, isn't it?--he's
held on, working his farm in spite of
everything, and the Huns don't seem to have
bothered him much."

Here one of the men brought some freshly-fried
bacon, biscuits, and light wine.

"Fall to!" Hedley went on.  "It was
a tremendous bit of luck, old Lumineau's
finding us, because of this cave of his.  It
is on the outskirts of his farm, and he
concealed here a lot of his spare stores when
he had news that the Huns were coming
up last September twelvemonth.  The cave
has had a history, it appears, and it's lucky
again that the Huns don't know of it.  The
old farmer told me it used to shelter a famous
band of outlaws centuries ago.  During the
Revolution a local nobleman's family lived
in it for months.  More recently it has been
a store for smugglers running goods across
the Belgian frontier.  We're pretty safe
here, though of course a strolling Hun may
discover it any day, and then----"

"How did you happen to be in the wood
when I came down?"

"We weren't there, but we heard your
engine, and Stanbridge, who's got a wonderful
ear, declared it was English, so we rushed
up on the chance.  If it hadn't been so dark
and raining so hard, the Huns would
certainly have seen or heard you; but you
always had all the luck!"

"You've had a good share, anyway."

"We have, that's true.  Old Lumineau
has kept us well supplied, at Heaven knows
what risk to himself.  We're hanging on
here in the hope of getting back some day.
It's pretty hopeless, I expect; but I'm not
going to give in till I must."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"I don't see how you can.  We must
trust to luck."

"When that wheel's straightened I'll fly
back and report to your colonel."

"He can't do anything.  Nothing short
of a general push could gain this ground,
and he won't risk hundreds for the sake of a
score.  Our only chance is to slip through
when they're strafing one night; even then
the odds are a hundred to one against us.
Still, I dare say the C.O. would be pleased
to know what's become of us, and I'll be
glad if you'll tell him.  But d'you think
you're fit to fly back to-night after your
gruelling?"

"Oh yes!  I've had a bit of a shake,
but a little rest will set me up.  I've
discovered a new battery the Huns have rigged
up, and must report as soon as possible.
Look: here's the spot."

He showed the mark recently made on his map.

"Good!" said Hedley, examining the
map with interest.  "But the Huns'
trenches aren't marked so completely as
on mine.  Here you see we have them all
plotted out: we know them as well as we
know our own."

"That's useful.  I say, Hedley, I don't
see why we shouldn't make some practical
use of your presence in the enemy's country,
and get you away too."

"As for getting away, we shall have to
depend on ourselves.  As I said before, the
C.O. won't risk hundreds for the sake of our
little lot; and if he would, the Brigadier
wouldn't allow it."

"I don't know.  Could you make me a
copy of the map so far as this neighbourhood
is concerned, putting in the position
of the cave?"

"Certainly: I'll scratch it in on a leaf
from my order-book."

The rough drawing completed, Burton
folded the paper and put it in his pocket,
remarking, half in jest, half in earnest--

"If the Huns collar me, I'm afraid I'll
have to eat it.  Now this is my idea."

There ensued a long discussion, in the
course of which Hedley passed from doubt
to confidence and enthusiasm.

"Well, if you bring it off," he said in
conclusion, "it'll be a tremendous score.
You're a V.C. already: I don't see what
more they can do for you--except make
you a lord."

"My dear fellow! ... There's just one
point.  I ought to have a better landing-place
than that wood.  After to-night's
affair I shall be nervous if there are trees
about.  Is there anything more suitable
and safe?"

Hedley considered.

"There is," he said presently, "a little
farther away.  Beyond the wood the ground
rises: it's the nearest thing to a hill these
parts can show.  Then it dips into a wide
grassy hollow.  That's your place.  I'll get
old Lumineau to show three small lights
there to-morrow night at eleven.  In the
hollow they won't be seen by the Huns:
besides, I'll get him to mask them except
from the sky."

"That's capital.  Well, if I don't turn up
by eleven or soon after you'll know that
either I have been winged on the way or
that the Brigadier has turned down our
little entertainment.  In that case, you must
do the best you can on your own."

"Right, old man.  What I'm most afraid
of is that you won't get away safely.  There's
no strafing to-night, and the Huns are
bound to hear your engine.  You'll make
more noise going up."

"But it's dark: there's no moon; and
I shall be well up before they spot me."

"Let's hope so."

"What's the time?"

"Ten minutes to nine.  Better wait till
midnight.  Take a nap."

"I will.  Wake me when the time comes."

Burton was one of those lucky mortals
who can sleep anywhere at any time.  In a
few minutes he was sleeping soundly.  At
midnight Hedley roused him.

"Time's up," he said.  "The rain has
stopped, and the sky's clear: there's just
enough starlight to show you the way.
I'm sending Stanbridge and a squad to
replace your wheel, carry the machine out
and see you off.  I'd better keep on the
*qui vive* here, I think."

"Good-bye, then--till to-morrow."

Following the men, Burton stole out of
the cave and crept with extreme caution into
the wood.  The neighbourhood was quiet;
the only sound was the booming of guns
far away.  The wheel was replaced; the
'plane was quickly dragged or lifted to the
open hollow about a quarter of a mile away.
Burton spent a few anxious minutes in
looking over the engine by the light of his
electric torch; then he strapped himself
into his seat, and ordered Stanbridge to
whirl the propeller while the other men
clung to the rear of the machine.

"Race back like mad when I'm off," he
said.  "'Ware Huns!"

The engine began to roar.

"Stand clear!" he said.

The machine rolled off along the grass,
gathering momentum; the tail lifted; the
wheels rose clear; and she skimmed the
grass like a huge bird.  In a few seconds
Burton was slanting upward on the first
round of his spiral course.

Ten minutes later a party of German
infantry, some fully clothed, others in various
stages of deshabille, rushed breathlessly over
the rise into the now deserted hollow.

"I am sure," said one of them, "the
first sound came from somewhere about
here.  Then an aeroplane rose like a big
black bird above the trees.  I gave the
alarm the moment I heard the engine."

"You must have been dreaming, stupid,"
said his lieutenant, irritable at being wakened.
"There was no aeroplane here at nightfall;
one couldn't have gone up if it hadn't come
down first, and I must have heard that.
Think yourself lucky I don't report you for
sleeping on duty.  Feldwebel, bring the men
back."

The lieutenant turned on his heel and
plodded grumbling back down the hill.
The glare of Verey lights, the bursting of
shells in the sky westward, might have
confirmed the man's story; but Lieutenant
Schnauzzahn was never the man to admit
himself in the wrong.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   IV

.. vspace:: 2

A little before eleven on the following
night, the Germans on that part of the front
were thrown into agitation by a sudden
burst of unusually violent gun-fire from the
British artillery.  Such a bombardment was
commonly preliminary to an infantry
attack, and the German soldier, though brave
enough, is no longer quite easy in mind at
the prospect of meeting British "Tommies."  The
few men in the front trenches cowered
on the ground or in their dug-outs; the
communication and support trenches filled up;
and Verey lights illuminated the No Man's
Land across which they expected the enemy
to swarm when the bombardment ceased.

The deafening din and crash stopped as
suddenly as it had begun.  The Germans
rushed into their front trenches.  But there
was no sign of movement on the now brightly
lit space.  There was no rifle fire, no bombs,
no sound of cheering.  All was quiet.  They
were puzzled.  Was the attack postponed?
The shelling had not lasted long enough to
do very much damage.  Perhaps it was
intended to frighten them.  None would
admit that, if such were the object, it had
succeeded.  For a time they stood to arms,
watchful, suspicious, uneasy.  But the
bombardment was not resumed.  Nothing showed
above the British parapets.  They loosed off
a few shots to relieve their feelings; then
settled down to the weary night-work of the
trenches.

At the moment when this brief bombardment
opened, Burton made his ascent from
the aerodrome behind the British lines.  At
the moment when it ceased he was circling
behind the German lines, some 2000 feet in
the air, vainly endeavouring to pick up the
pre-arranged signal-lights in the hollow.  His
flight had been carefully timed with the
bombardment; he ought to have landed
under cover of the noise; but the best
arrangements are apt to be nullified by the
unforeseen.  A mist blanketed the ground,
dense enough to obscure completely any
lights of less than electric intensity.

This was baffling.  It was also alarming.
The purring of the engine, hitherto smothered
by the continuous gun-fire, must now be
distinctly audible below.  One searchlight
had already begun to play; before long the
aeroplane would be in the full glare of their
intersecting rays.  What should he do?  To
go back meant the breakdown of the whole
scheme; the opportunity might not recur.
Yet to land haphazard would be to court
disaster; to land at all might throw him
into the hands of patrols sent out to capture him.

While he was thus uneasily turning over
the problem, his eyes, strained earthward,
suddenly discovered three tiny points of
light arranged triangularly.  They as
suddenly disappeared; a puff of wind had for
the moment broken the mist, which had
then rolled back and obscured them.  But
the glimpse was enough to decide him.  He
dropped a thousand feet, wheeling, so far
as he could judge by guesswork, around
the spot at which he had seen the lights.
Once more he caught sight of them; they
were brighter.  Another searchlight was
sweeping the sky: it was neck or nothing
now.  Keeping the lights in view, he
dived steeply, coming to earth with a
sharp jolt, within twenty paces of the apex
of the triangle.  Before the machine had
lost its impetus, however, it crashed against
the stump of a tree at the edge of the
hollow.  Burton was thrown forward in his
seat; fortunately the strap prevented him
from being hurled out.  Recovering from
the shock, he loosened the strap, climbed
down, glanced around, and seeing no one,
proceeded to examine the forward part of
the machine.  He gave a gasp of dismay.
The propeller was smashed.

The consequence of the disaster immediately
flashed into his mind.  He could only
get back in company with the Rutlands.
If they failed, he would fail too.

He had just assured himself that the
damage was irreparable with such appliances
as were at his command in the cave, when
he became aware of light footsteps rapidly
approaching.  Expecting to see some of the
Rutlands, who had been no doubt looking
out for him, he raised his head towards the
crest of the rise.  Next moment he was in
the grasp of two men, one of whom, mouthing
guttural triumph, gripped his throat in
a strangle hold.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   V

.. vspace:: 2

About half an hour before Burton started
from the aerodrome, Captain Bramarbas of
the 19th Pomeranian infantry of the line
laid down his knife and fork with a grunt
of satisfaction.  He wiped his lips, tossed
off a glass of wine, and turning gleaming
eyes upon Lieutenant Schnauzzahn of the
same regiment, who sat opposite, he ejaculated--

"Gott sei dank!  These French swine
have one virtue: they can cook."

"It is wonderful!" the lieutenant agreed.
"Who would have thought that an old
French farmer would have had such
resources?  Cheap, too."

"Cheap indeed!" laughed the captain.
"Between you and me, old Lumineau will
have difficulty in turning our paper into
good German money after the war ... Ist
es aber entsetzlich--the noise of those swine."

The door had just opened to admit an old
woman servant bearing coffee.  From the
adjoining room--the spacious farm kitchen
given up to the captain's men--came a
guttural roar.  A hundred Germans
feeding like one make a variety of unpleasant
noises.  It is not a mere coincidence,
perhaps, that the Prussian loves a pig.

The officers took their cups of coffee, lit
cigars, and lolled back in their chairs.  The
door closed behind the servant, reducing
the sounds to a muffled hum, not loud
enough to disturb the comfort of gentlemen.
It was a pleasant hour.  The day's work
was done; they were three or four miles
behind the firing line; the farm was a
snug billet.  They had been working late;
supper had taken the place of dinner:
when they had finished their cigars they
might go with a good German conscience to bed.

Presently there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said the captain drowsily.

A sergeant entered, and stiffly saluted.

"What do you want?  It is late.  I gave
you your orders."

"Herr Captain, I ask pardon for disturbing
you, but----"

"Waste no time, Ascher.  Say what you
have to say quickly, confound you!"

.. _`The captain is annoyed`:

.. figure:: images/img-277.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Say what you have to say quickly--confound you!"

   "Say what you have to say quickly--confound you!"

"It is important, Herr Captain.  For
some time I have been suspicious of the
farmer, as the Herr Captain knows, though
he does not condescend to share my doubts.
True, the farmer, though a Frenchman, is
very obliging" (here the sergeant glanced
for a moment at the remains on the table),
"but I felt that his amiability was a mere
blind, and I watched him."

"Ha!  Now what did you see?" said
the captain, sitting up.  "If there is
treachery----"

"Once or twice at night the farmer has
gone out towards the wood yonder.  I asked
myself, why?  There is no farm work at
night.  To-night I followed him.  It was
difficult, Herr Captain, for he moved very
cautiously, stopping and looking behind and
around him."

"That itself is suspicious.  Well?"

"He made his way beyond the wood,
up the hill, and down into the hollow on
the other side, and there, Herr Captain, he
placed three small lamps on the ground,
so."  He moved to the table, and arranged
three bottles triangularly.  "He lit them."

"And you?  You seized him, of course?"

"I thought of doing so, Herr Captain,
and of demanding an explanation; but I
felt it was a matter for the Herr Captain's
discretion----"

"And you left him!  Idiot!  They were
signals, of course.  You ought to have put
them out, tied him up, and brought him to
me in the morning.  Now I lose an hour's
sleep.  Idiot!"

Captain Bramarbas was active enough
now.  He got up, buckled his belt and put
on his helmet.

"Come, Schnauzzahn," he said, "we will
see to this ourselves."

"Why not send a squad?" suggested the
lieutenant.

"Ach! the swine are probably drunk.
They are dull fools at the best.  Come
along!  We'll slip out through the window,
to avoid warning the servants."

The two officers and the sergeant climbed
out of the window and hastened towards
the hill.  They had scarcely gone when the
servant who had waited on them knocked
at the door, and receiving no answer,
hearing no voices, quickly opened it and looked
in.  She glanced from the vacant chairs to
the open window.

"Eh, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and
closing the door, hurried back to the kitchen.

The three Germans had covered about half
the distance to the hill when the sound of
heavy firing from the right broke upon their
ears.  They stopped, and stood for a few
moments watching the shells bursting in
rapid succession in the neighbourhood of
the trenches.  The captain swore.

"It looks like an attack," he growled.
"These cursed English!  We must make
haste in case we are called up in support.
No sleep to-night, Schnauzzahn."

They hurried on, and in five minutes
more were creeping up the low incline.  At
the crest they halted and peered into the
hollow.  A figure was bending over one of
the lamps, which emitted a brighter light
into the mist.

"Go and capture him, Ascher," whispered
the captain.

"Shall I bayonet him, Herr Captain?"

"No; we must use him.  We can shoot
him later."

The sergeant crept silently upon the old
farmer from the rear.  It was the work of
a few seconds to overpower him and cast
him helpless on the ground.

The two officers went forward.  As they
descended the slope they became aware that
the lights were less visible.

"They're intended as signals to an aeroplane,"
said Schnauzzahn, approaching them
rapidly.  "See!  They are directed above."

"Villainous treachery!  But our good
German wits will defeat it.  Listen!  Do
you hear an engine?"

"No," replied the lieutenant after a brief
silence.

"Then we have still time.  Ascher, move
the lamps near the slope.  We'll spoil his
landing!"

The sergeant carried the lamps to the
foot of the slope, and placed them close
together.

"Not so, idiot!" cried the captain,
"arrange them as they were before.  Don't
you understand?"

Hardly had the lamps been rearranged
in their triangular position when the
whirring of an engine was heard through the
thunder of the distant guns.

"Here he is!" said Bramarbas.  "I
hope he'll break his neck.  If he doesn't,
you and I will seize him, Schnauzzahn;
Ascher will guard the farmer."

They waited.  The aeroplane could be
heard wheeling above.  The bombardment
suddenly ceased.

"The English have changed their minds.
They can't have done much harm in ten
minutes.  So much the better!" said the
captain.  The searchlights began to play.
"Potztausend!  I hope he won't be shot
down.  Much better for us to capture him.
Can he see the lights through the mist?"

"No doubt he has seen them.  The sound
has stopped.  He has shut off the engine."

"Bring the Frenchman over the crest,
Ascher, and don't let him cry out."

Thus it happened that Burton, after
his unlucky accident, found himself in the
grasp of Captain Bramarbas and Lieutenant
Schnauzzahn of the 19th Pomeranian
infantry of the line.

The German officers were mightily pleased
with themselves.  They had supped well:
French cooking and French wine predisposed
them to rosy views.  Nothing more
delightful could have crowned their day.  A
French spy, an English aeroplane and an
English airman--all in a single haul!  The
Iron Cross had often been awarded for much
less.  And, of course, there was something
behind it all.  An enemy aeroplane would
not land thus in the German lines unless
there was some important object to be
gained.  The English, no doubt, were mad;
but after all there was method in their
madness.  The next move must be to
discover the nature of this Englishman's scheme,
and his means of communication with the
farmer spy.  Then compliments, promotion,
and the Iron Cross!

Some such thoughts as these raced through
the Germans' minds in the moment of exultation,
when, for the first time, their hands
laid hold of English flesh.

"Hand over your revolver," said the
captain in German.  "Do you speak German?"

"No," said Burton, making no resistance
as Schnauzzahn relieved him of the weapon.
He felt very wretched.

Captain Bramarbas was disappointed.
Neither he nor his lieutenant spoke English,
and it did not occur to him for the moment
that the Englishman might speak French.

"We'll march our prisoners down to the
farm," he said to Schnauzzahn.

"Wait a moment.  They may have
accomplices who will remove or destroy the
aeroplane as soon as our backs are turned.
That would be a pity."

"What then?  If one of us stays to guard
the machine, and there are accomplices, he
would have to meet an unknown number
single-handed."

He stood pointing his revolver at Burton.
They must find a way out of this quandary.

"Why not send Ascher to the farm to
bring up some men?"

"Again, he might be sprung upon by the
enemy.  Of course, they would have no
chance in the end, but for the present, until
we know more, we had better remain all
three together.  Listen!  Do you hear anything?"

"No."

"They may be lurking somewhere to take
us unawares, though how they could conceive
such a scheme, so mad, so insolent----  Ach!
I have it."

The captain had indeed at last made up
his mind--and, as the sequel showed, chosen
the wrong course.  It was, perhaps, no
worse than another, for it was chosen in
ignorance of the circumstances; but his
calculation sprang from a typically German
misconception of the psychology of an
Englishman.

A sentry was always on duty at the door
of the farm.  A couple of revolver shots
would give him the alarm, and in a few
minutes the Pomeranians, swine in their
hours of ease, but good soldiers
nevertheless, would rush to their captain's
assistance.

Burton stood motionless.  Schnauzzahn
was a little to his left.  Bramarbas faced
him, holding the revolver.  The captain
suddenly fired off two rapid shots, moving
the revolver to the right so as to avoid
hitting his prisoner.

The airman's life is punctuated by swift
decisions, depends on the perfect
co-ordination of act with thought.  Burton's
mind worked quicker than lightning.
Before the German had time to cover him
again, he shot out his right arm, rigid as a
rod of metal, struck up the captain's wrist
with a sharp jerk that sent the revolver
flying, and a fraction of a second later
dealt him with the left fist a fierce upper
cut beneath the jaw, and lifted him into the
bushes.

A bullet scorched Burton's cheek as he
spun round to deal with Schnauzzahn.
Another stung his left shoulder.  But he
hurled himself upon the agitated lieutenant,
and with a sledge-hammer blow sent him to
join his captain.

There was now only the sergeant to
dispose of.  That worthy stood over the
prostrate farmer some little distance away,
and though he had heard the thudding
blow and the crash as each of his superiors
fell, he had not clearly seen what had
happened.  Burton was dashing towards
him when a Verey light illumined the
scene.  And then the sergeant was
transfixed with amazement and terror, for on
one side of him he saw the figure of a
British airman, on the other, sprinting up
towards the lip of the hollow, a score of
silent forms in the well-known khaki.
Ordinarily, no doubt, he was a brave man,
but at such a moment as this valour melted
in discretion.  He flung up his hands.

.. _`HANDS UP!`:

.. figure:: images/img-285.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: HANDS UP!

   HANDS UP!

The German officers meanwhile had
picked themselves up.  They were surrounded
and seized.  The light had died away.

"Quick!" said Hedley.  "I hear the
Huns rushing out of the farm.  Where's
Lumineau?"

The farmer had risen, and came to him.

"Get away to the cave," said Burton.
"I'll be after you in a second: must fire
the machine."

He rushed to the aeroplane, poured some
petrol out and applied a match, and as the
flame shot up into the air, dashed after the
Rutlands and their three prisoners, who,
under the guidance of the farmer, were
disappearing into the wood.  Five minutes
later, when the Pomeranians arrived on the
scene, their amazed eyes beheld only a
blazing aeroplane; not a man was in sight.

Arriving at the cave, the panting Englishmen
threw themselves down; some laughed
silently; the spectacle of three gagged
Germans was very pleasing.

"What brought you up so opportunely?"
asked Burton.  "Not the shots?  There
wasn't time."

"No.  Old Jacqueline warned us.  She
missed the officers, saw the open window,
and guessed that they had got on the
track of Lumineau.  Trust a Frenchwoman's
wits!  But I say, what's your news?"

"It couldn't be better.  The Brigadier,
as it happened, had ordered an attack on
the German trenches for to-night.  When
your C.O. explained the circumstances, he
was quite keen to fit his arrangements to
our scheme."

"That bombardment wasn't bluff, then?"

"He timed it to give me cover, and
broke off to delude the Huns.  The attack
is fixed for two o'clock, when they'll have
given up expecting it."

"That leaves us plenty of time to get to
the trenches.  It'll be ticklish work, getting
through.  I'll tell old Lumineau: we
depend on his guidance.  If he declines the
job we shall be horribly handicapped."

He took the farmer apart, and held a
quiet conversation with him.  The old man
readily agreed to guide the party to the
vicinity of the third line of trenches.

"But you'll come with us all the way?"
said Hedley.  "The farm won't be safe for
you after this.  You'll be shot."

Lumineau shrugged and smiled.

"Perhaps not, monsieur," he said.
"The Bosches did not see us; they will
only be puzzled.  I will go now back to
the farm; do you see my amazement
when they tell me their officers have
disappeared?  I will lead a search--not in
this direction, par exemple!--and I will
come back in good time to lead you.  A
bas les Bosches."


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   VI

.. vspace:: 2

Some few days later, Lieutenant Hedley
was dispensing hospitality to a few friends
in a neat little officers' estaminet in a
village behind the lines.  Among his guests
were Captain Adams and other officers of
the Rutlands' supporting battery, and Burton
of the Flying Corps.

"It took us about forty minutes to
smash that battery you spotted, Burton,"
said Adams, with an air of pride.

"Better than pig-killing," returned Burton
solemnly.

"Oh, we cut up a few pigs too."

"How do you know?" asked Hedley.

"Well, you see, in the first place," Adams
was beginning earnestly, when Laurence Cay
interrupted him.

"We haven't time for firstly, secondly,
thirdly, old man.  We want to hear about
Hedley and his missing platoon.  By George! it
must have been creepy work."

"A good deal of it was literally creeping,"
said Hedley.  "Old Farmer Lumineau led
us through woods and orchards for
miles--a roundabout way, of course.  It was
ghastly, trudging along in the dark, trying
to make no noise, afraid to whisper, stopping
to listen, starting at the least sound.  We
got at last to a little copse just behind
the farthermost line of trenches, and there
Lumineau left us.  We were on thorns, I
can tell you.  It seemed that the attack
would never begin.  We couldn't hear any
Huns anywhere near us, but caught a note
of a cornet now and then from some billet
on our left rear.  I looked at my trench map----"

"In the dark?" asked Adams.

"No, you juggins! in the light of my
electric torch, screened by the men stooping
over me.  I got a pretty good idea of our
whereabouts, and talked over a plan of
action with my sergeant--a capital
fellow--and Burton.  I nearly yelled in sheer
excitement when I heard the row as our
chaps started bombing the first trenches.
We heard the Huns then, too; rifles,
machine-guns, whizz-bangs: it was an
inferno.  We crept out into the communication
trench I had spotted, and had nearly
got to the second line when we heard a
crowd of Huns racing across from our right.
We waited a bit, went on again, and came
smack into a traverse.  It was pitch dark,
but we had no sooner scrambled over than
a star-shell burst right overhead.  We flung
ourselves down, dashed on when the light
died, and--well, I hardly know what
happened next.  All I know is that somehow
or other we discovered that we were pressing
on the rear of a lot of Huns who were being
forced back by our fellows in front, and there
was a good chance of our being scuppered
by our own bombs.  I passed along word
to give a yell, and the men shouted like
fiends let loose.  That was enough for the
Huns.  Rutlands in front of them, Rutlands
behind them!  'Kamerad!  Kamerad!'
they bawled when I called to them to
surrender; and to make a long story short, we
scooped the lot and got safe through with a
few trifling casualties."

"What beats me," said Adams, "is
how Burton managed to deal with three
armed Germans single-handed.  How was
it, Burton?"

Now Burton was never very ready to talk
about himself.  He flicked the ash off his
cigarette, and hesitatingly answered--

"Just a bit of luck, Adams."

"Yes, but what?"

"There were only two really."

"Hedley said there were three."

"So there were," said Hedley, "but there
was only one upright when I arrived on the
scene."

"What about the others, then?  Come, Burton!"

"They weren't far away.  The fact is,
I knocked 'em down, if you must have it."

"Both at once?  Right, left--that way?"

"No, one after the other.  You see, the
captain gave me an opening, and I took it,
that's all."

The company were not satisfied with
this far from lucid explanation, and pressed
Burton with questions until the details
were dragged out of him.  He had to
endure a flood of congratulations, until a
diversion by Captain Adams, who had been
meditating a tit-for-tat for Burton's
"chipping" on the occasion of his visit to the
battery, brought welcome relief.

"Well," said the captain, slowly unfolding
a copy of the *Times*, "Burton has been
gassing a good deal, but what does it all
amount to?  The official account won't
shock his modesty.  Listen!  'Last night
we captured certain elements of the enemy's
first and second lines of trenches in the
neighbourhood of ----, and are now
consolidating our gains!'"

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   THE END

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   PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD.,
   BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   HERBERT STRANG'S STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR

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   A HERO OF LIÉGE (Belgium).
   FIGHTING WITH FRENCH (Flanders).
   FRANK FORESTER (Gallipoli).
   BURTON OF THE FLYING CORPS.
   THROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINES (Asia Minor).

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   HISTORICAL STORIES

.. vspace:: 2

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   WITH DRAKE ON THE SPANISH MAIN (Elizabeth).
   HUMPHREY BOLD (William III and Anne).
   THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER (Anne).
   ROB THE RANGER (Wolfe In Canada).
   ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES (Clive in India).
   BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE (Peninsular War).
   BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES (Indian Mutiny).
   KOBO (Russo-Japanese War).
   BROWN OF MOUKDEN (Russo-Japanese War).

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   ROMANCES

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   JACK HARDY: A Story of One Hundred Years Ago.
   PALM-TREE ISLAND (Adventure in the Pacific).
   SETTLERS AND SCOUTS (East Africa).
   THE ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION (Smugglers).
   THE AIR SCOUT: A Story of National Defence.
   THE AIR PATROL: A Story of the North-West Frontier.
   TOM BURNABY (the Congo Forest).
   SULTAN JIM (German Aggression in Central Africa).
   A GENTLEMAN AT ARMS (the Times of Elizabeth)
   SAMBA (the Congo Free State).
   THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN (Central Asian Mysteries).

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