“I know that, but I cannot think of any better excuse.”

“Besides,” said Stubbs, “if the Bulgarians were killed here by the Serbians, the chances are the Bulgarian commander will want to know how it happens we weren’t killed also.”

“Stubbs,” said Hal, “I told you you were always a kill-joy.  You can pick more flaws in things than any one I can think of.  We’ll tell the Bulgarians that story and take a chance on its passing muster.”

“Then we may as well say our prayers now,” said Stubbs mournfully.

“But what will we tell them we are?” asked Chester.

“Americans,” replied Hal.  “Caught here by the retreat.  We were just making our way out of the country.  I’ll do the talking.”

“All right,” said Chester, and added:  “Sh-h-h, here they come now!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

Prisoners.

Came a knock at the door.

“You answer it, Miss Ellison, please,” said Hal, adding:  “If you are questioned, tell the same story you told Chester.”

The girl nodded and moved to the door without a sign of nervousness.  Directly she could be heard in conversation with one of the officers.  Then followed heavy footsteps approaching.

“You say they are in here?  I’ll have a look at them myself,” said a voice.

A moment later the scowling face of a Bulgarian colonel appeared in the doorway.  Helen stood just behind him and behind her were several other Bulgarian officers.

Hal rose, as did the others, as the Bulgarian swept into the room.

“Who are you?” demanded the officer in a harsh voice.

“Hal Paine, an American,” replied the lad, and indicated the others after this fashion:  “Chester Crawford, also an American; Harry Anderson, an American; Nikol, an Albanian, the servant there of Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent; Ivan Vergoff, also an Albanian.”

“Hm-m-m,” muttered the Bulgarian.  “You have quite a fluent tongue, young man.  And what are you doing here?”

“Three of us,” said Hal, indicating Chester, Colonel Anderson and himself, “were looking about Montenegro when the war broke out.  We have been there since, lending what aid we could to the wounded.  There we encountered Ivan Vergoff, who, for some reason, became attached to us.  There also we encountered Anthony Stubbs, war correspondent, and his man, Nikol.”

“Very plausible, very plausible,” said the Bulgarian.  “But how do I know you speak the truth?”

Hal shrugged his shoulders.

“We can’t very well offer proof of our identities,” he said.  “But were the American consul here, I could very soon convince him.”

The officer frowned at this remark.  The mention of an American consul or minister or ambassador always brought frowns to the faces of military officers in the war zone.  It boded trouble if American subjects were not well treated.