A few yards away, Roy, his face bleeding, was the centre of another group
who were disarming him in spite of his struggles.
Ken glanced at his captors. He saw that they were Turkish constabulary,
and his heart sank. These men, trained by Germans, paid by them, and
soaked in their brutal tenets, were among the small minority of Turks who
had really come to share the German hatred of the British.
They glared fiercely at their prisoners.
'British swine!' growled one, and spat in contempt.
'They are spies,' said another. 'We find them three miles behind our
lines. Why do we waste time taking them prisoners? Let us hang them and be
done with them.'
'Why not let them run and ride them down?' suggested another. 'Sticking
with a lance is a fit fate for hogs.'
But the sergeant, a tall, swarthy faced man with a pair of fierce black
eyes, pushed his way forward.
'Fools, these are the men who escaped last night from Captain Hartmann. We
have his orders to bring them before him.
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