y had defended themselves bravely. Now they
seemed no longer to have any stomach for the fight. As the Colonials
poured like an avalanche into the ravine the Turks turned, and scrambling
wildly up the far side, bolted for their lives.

But the Colonials, with the bitter memory in their minds of all they had
suffered during the previous night and day, were not minded to let them
escape so easily. With loud shouts they gave chase. The Turks, good
marchers but poor runners, stood no earthly chance in this terrible race,
and by scores and hundreds were bayoneted or seized and dragged back as
prisoners.

Filled with mad excitement, Ken raced onwards in the forefront of the
line. His bayonet was dripping, a red mist clouded his eyes, for the
moment he was fighting mad.

He stumbled over a log and nearly fell. He realised that he was in a small
wood of low-growing trees with wide spreading branches. To his right he
heard shouts and shrieks and the sound of shots, but for the moment there
was not another soul in sight.

His throat was like a lime kiln. He stopped a moment to take a swallow of
water from his felt-covered flask, then went forward again.

He came to an open space, and as he reached its edge saw four men with a
quick-firer hurrying frantically across the open to the trees on the far
side.

Three were Turks, but the fourth wore the gray-green of a German officer.
The latter was short and--for a German--slight. Something about him seemed
vaguely familiar.

At that moment he turned and glanced round, and Ken saw his face. He could
hardly believe his eyes. The man was Kemp, ex-steward of the 'Cardigan
Castle.' There could be no doubt about it. That sallow complexion, the low
forehead, and the thick black eyebrows which met above his nose were quite
unmistakable.

Without an instant's hesitation Ken flung up his rifle and fired straight
at the man. But blown with long running, his hand shook. At any rate, he
missed, and next instant the German, the Turks, and their gun vanished
into the trees opposite.

Footsteps came crashing through the dead leaves and dry sticks behind Ken.

'We've got 'em on toast, Carrington,' came the deep voice of Roy Horan.
The big fellow was splashed with blood and dripping with perspiration, but
in his eyes was a gleam which told of his delight at the result of the
charge.

Ken gave a gasp of joy.

'The very man, Horan! Kemp and three Turkish gunners have just gone into
the tre