’Don’t worry, dear chap.  You couldn’t possibly have done anything else.  And as for a bullet in the heart, what is it?  It don’t take long and it don’t hurt, and we can always feel we’ve played the game.’

As he spoke he came closer and laid his shackled hands on Ken’s shoulder.

‘Thank you, Roy,’ said Ken in a very low voice.  ’You—­you’ve helped me a lot.  It—­it’s father I’m thinking of.’

’I know.  But after all he isn’t dead yet.  And like as not this swab Henkel may get wiped out before he has the chance of doing him down.’

Silence fell between them.  They sat with their backs against the wall, their hearts too full to talk.  Ken’s thoughts were with his father and his younger brother Anthony; Roy’s were back in New Zealand, picturing the sunny plains and wild ranges around his home, the brawling rivers and the white sheep grazing on the great grass lands.

The last rays of the sun shone through the one small window of the hut, and presently came the tramp of men outside.

The corporal opened the door, the boys walked out, and guarded on either side were marched once more up the foul, narrow street to the higher ground above.

Beyond the house where their mock trial had taken place was a vineyard surrounded by a stone wall.  Against this they were posted while the firing party was detailed.

Henkel, his bloodshot eyes aflame with ill-suppressed rage, stalked up to them.

‘I give you a last chance,’ he said harshly to Ken.  ’I have told the others that you have certain information which I will take in exchange for your lives.  Give me your word that you will write that letter, and all will be well.’

‘You have had my answer,’ said Ken quietly.  ’Now go and watch us being murdered.’

Henkel bit his lip savagely.

‘Your blood is on your own heads,’ he said hoarsely.  ’I have given you every chance.’

He stamped away, and as he did so took a handkerchief out of his pocket.

‘When I drop this, fire,’ he said curtly to the eight Turks who composed the firing party.

‘Good-bye, old chap,’ said Ken to Roy.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Roy answered.  ‘After all, we’re going together.’

Ken hardly heard.  He was still tortured with the feeling that it was through him that Roy Horan and his father were to lose their lives.  He knew he was right, and yet—­’

A sound like a maxim gun in the distance smote upon his ears.  It grew louder every instant.  All, even Henkel, glanced upwards.

‘Only an aeroplane, Ken,’ said Roy in a whisper.  ’By Jove, though, it’s one of our chaps.’

Across the rich blue of the evening sky a great Farman biplane came sailing like a gigantic bird.  She was barely five hundred feet up, and heading straight for the village.  What was more, she was actually coming lower every moment.

Henkel, the other officer, the firing party, the bystanders—­all stood with their eyes fixed upon the plane.  The cool insolence of her pilot held them spellbound.  For the moment Ken and Roy were absolutely forgotten.