"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."
"But I geeves you informations, what more?"
"Look here, old cock, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."
"Syrian good man," protested the informer.
"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, cocking his revolver suddenly.
"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead--that way," said Tony, directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.
"Here--look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.
"Now, keep quiet," ordered the officer, pushing him down the hill. Stealthily they went, avoiding dug-outs, tents, and other hives of the Turkish army. For hours they seemed to walk. Something was wrong.
"Stop!" said Tony suddenly. Instinct suggested danger. He had been led astray. Pulling out a compass, he fixed it. The direction was wrong. This Syrian was playing his own game. He wanted another hundred pounds for this officer's body. It was worth more than that to the Turkish army. And he knew it. War breeds parasites and rogues.
"You scoundrel!" said Tony, springing at the Syrian's throat. The latter fought, kicked, and bit like a tiger. To have shot him would have been madness, for they were now back in the centre of the Turkish lines. Placing his great hands round the man's throat, Tony slowly choked him into a state of collapse. Another knock on his head with the butt of the revolver placed him in such a condition that he would be unable to recollect his thoughts for many days. That was all the subaltern desired. He left him. Taking a compass bearing again, he struck out towards the beach. Luck favoured him almost till the end. As he neared the top of the cliff which guarded the beach his foot slipped, and he fell into a dug-out, right on the top of three Turkish soldiers. Curses were mixed with shouts of "Allah!" Then questions were asked. But Tony could answer none. A little flashlamp next shone in his face. He was discovered.
"Inglees! Inglees!" exclaimed a Turk. The other two started and chattered volubly. One lifted a rifle to finish him off, but the man with the lamp stopped him. He knew his job. He wanted to know what this man was doing there. Tony was searched, and the map discovered secreted down the leg of his stocking. His heart quailed. He seemed doomed. He had been so near success; now he seemed so far. He inwardly shuddered at the prospect ahead. It would be death, and death of a cruel and unrefined kind. Oh, the mental horror of that moment. It was worse than a bayonet in the stomach, and that is bad enough. He longed for death--death, sure and sharp. But it did not come. He was seized and bound, then thrown into a corner to await the dawn, when this coast patrol would take him back to the Turkish lines. His cords cut into his hands and legs; his tongue was parched; his heart beating at the coming of the dawn.