A cloud of dust rose like smoke, and hid all below.  Then from out the cloud came squeals and shrieks.

In their excitement, Ken and Roy actually forgot to send fresh stones to follow the first.  There was no need.  When the dust cloud cleared, one mule which had broken loose was galloping madly across country, the rest were down and dead.

The gun, dismounted, was half buried in a pile of shale which lay feet deep across the road.  Of the men, not one remained.  Most were not only dead, but buried.  Two only lay clear, and to all appearance they were as dead as their companions.

Roy looked at Ken.

‘What you might call a clean bit of work,’ he said, but though he tried to smile, there was something like awe in his voice.

‘Yes.  A ten-inch shell could hardly have done more,’ Ken answered.  ’Poor beggars!  It’s rather ghastly wiping ’em out like that, but one has got to remember that that gun would have probably finished ten times the number of our chaps if they’d got it into position.

‘We’d better go down,’ he added.  ’We may find a couple of rifles, and I’ll lay we shall need them before we reach our own lines.’

It was an awkward job to get down the bank, for the shale was so loose it kept breaking away under their feet.  They had to go quickly, too, for there was every chance of fresh reinforcements or more guns coming up the road.

Fortunately no one else appeared, and in a very few minutes they were busy hunting among the pile of rocks for rifles that had escaped injury.  They found three, but only one was serviceable.  The sights of the others were damaged.  They also found food.  It was bread, dark-looking and very stale, and goats’ milk cheese.

But they were far too hungry to be particular.  They stuffed it into their pockets.

At that moment came a deep groan from among the rocks.

Ken swung round sharply.

’There’s one of ’em alive in there,’ he said quickly, ’we can’t leave the poor beggar to die by inches.’

[Illustration:  ‘A rock avalanche was roaring down the steep.’]

He began rolling the stones aside, and guided by the groans he and Roy soon pulled out a youngish Turk and laid him on the side of the road.

Ken examined him quickly.

‘He’s got off cheaply,’ he said.  ’Nothing broken—­nothing the matter, so far as I can see, except bruises and a cut on the head.  Give him a drop of your brandy, Roy.’

As Roy unscrewed the stopper, the Turk’s eyes opened, and he stared up at his rescuers in blank amazement.

‘Englishmen!’ he muttered.

Roy put the flask to his lips, but he shook his head.

‘Water,’ he said in Turkish.

‘It’s against his religion to drink wine or spirits,’ Ken explained to Roy, and put his own water-bottle to the man’s lips.

‘I thank you,’ said the Turk with grave courtesy.  He sat up and looked round at the ruin on the road.