“No, my son,” he said.  “Yet if all had been stout enough to ask that, I would have dared attempt it.  No, we are perhaps a little desperate, but not yet so desperate as that.”

He began sweeping the horizon with his eyes, quartering the countryside mile by mile, overlooking nothing.  I saw him watch the wheeling kites and look below them, and twice I saw him fix his gaze for minutes at a time on one place.

“We will eat to-night!” he said at last.  “Sleep,” he ordered.  “Lie down and sleep until I summon you!” But he called me to his side and kept me wakeful for a while yet.

“Look yonder,” said he, and when I had gazed for about two minutes I was aware of a column of men and animals moving toward the city.  A little enough column.

“How fast are they moving?” he asked me, and I gazed for several minutes, reaching no decision.  I said they were too far away, and coming too much toward us for their speed to be accurately judged.  Yet I thought they moved slowly.

Said he, “Do you see that hollow—­one, two, three miles this side of them?” And I answered yes.  “That is a bend of the river that flows by the city,” said he.  “There is water there, and fire-wood.  They have come far and are heading toward it.  They are too far spent to reach Angora before night.  They will not try.  That is where they will camp.”

“Sahib,” I said, considering his words as a cook tastes curry, “our men be overweary to have fight in them.”

“Who spoke of fighting?” said he.  So I went and lay down, and fell asleep wondering.  When he came and roused me it was already growing late.  By the time I had roused the men and they were all lined up we could no longer see Angora for the darkness; which worked both ways--those in Angora could not see us.

“If any catch sight of us,” said Ranjoor Singh, speaking in a loud voice to us all, “let us hope they mistake us for friends.  What Turk or German looks for an enemy hereabouts?  The chances are all ours, but beware!  Be silent as ye know how!  Forward!”

It was a pitiable effort, for our bellies yearned and our feet were sore and stiff.  We stumbled from weariness, and men fell and were helped up again.  Gooja Singh and his ammunition bearers made more noise than a squadron of mounted cavalry, and the way proved twice as long as the most hopeless had expected.  Yet we made the circuit unseen and, as far as we knew, unheard—­certainly unchallenged.  Doubtless, as Ranjoor Singh said afterward, the Turks were too overriden by Germans and the Germans too overconfident to suspect the presence of an enemy.

At any rate, although we made more noise than was expedient, we halted at last among low bushes and beheld nine or ten Turkish sentries posted along the rim of a rise, all unaware of us.  Two were fast asleep.  Some sat.  The others drowsed, leaning on their rifles.  Ranjoor Singh gave us whispered orders and we rushed them, only one catching sight of us in time to raise an alarm.  He fired his rifle, but hit nobody, and in another second they were all surrounded and disarmed.