“How so?”

As I spoke there loomed out of the darkness just ahead of us eight men surrounding something on the track, their rifles sticking up above their shoulders.

“I’ve found eight men with rifles all alike that fit the ammunition in the boxes.  It’s stolen Turkish government ammunition, by the way.  The rifles come from the same source.  The point is that a man caught with a stolen government rifle and ammunition in his possession would be tortured.  Incidentally the men seem game.  Therefore, if we have to fight a rear-guard action we can reasonably count on them.  Haide!” he called to the eight men, and they picked up the case of cartridges, and resumed the march just ahead of us.

Fred lit his pipe contentedly, as he always is contented when he can make satisfactory arrangements to sacrifice himself unselfishly and pretend to himself he is a cynic.  Whether because the armed guard of their own people put new courage in them, or because rifles at their rear made them more afraid, the stragglers gave less trouble for the next few hours.  Perhaps they were growing more used to the march, and some of them were numb with anxiety, while not so weary yet that feet would not carry them forward.

Somewhere in advance a man with a high tenor voice began to sing a wild folk-song, of the sort that is common to all countries whose heritage is hope unstrangled.  He and others like him with love and music in their brave hearts sang the tortured column through its night of agony, keeping alive faint hope that hell must have an end.  Dawn broke sweet and calm.  For it makes no matter if a nation writhes in agony, or man wreaks hate on man, the wind and the sky still whisper and smile; and the scent of wild flowers is not canceled by the stench of tired humanity.

Fred knocked his pipe out and rode to the top of shoulder of rock beside the track, beckoning to me to follow.  We could see our column, astonishingly long drawn, winding like a line of ants in and out and over, following the leaders in a dream because there seemed nothing else to do or dream about.  Once I thought I caught sight of Will on his horse, passing between trees, but I was not sure.  Fred turned his horse about and looked in the direction we had come from.  Presently, be nudged me.

“That smoke might be the castle we were in last night.  See—­it’s red underneath.  What’ll you bet me Kurds don’t show up in pursuit before the day’s an hour old?”

That was nothing to bet about, and that kind of dawn is not the hour for roseate optimism.

“If they come,” said I, “I hope I don’t live to see what they’ll do to the women.”

Fred met my eyes and laughed.

“That’s all right,” he said.  “You ride on.  This rock commands the track.  I’ll follow later when pursuit’s called off.”

“Ride on yourself!” I answered, and he chuckled as he lighted his pipe again.