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.

                                   II

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.

[Illustration: 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.

"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.

[Illustration: "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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: A discomfited spy]

                                   IV

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.

[Illustration: Chapter IV Heading]

                            THE WATCH TOWER

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.

                                   II

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.

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."

[Illustration: "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.

                                   IV

"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.

[Illustration: 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."

                                   V

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.

                                   VI

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!"

[Illustration: "’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.

[Illustration: A PERILOUS MOMENT]

                                  VII

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.

[Illustration: Chapter V Heading]

                          THE MISSING PLATOON

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.

                                   II

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