and presently came the tramp of men outside.

The corporal opened the door, the boys walked out, and guarded on either
side were marched once more up the foul, narrow street to the higher
ground above.

Beyond the house where their mock trial had taken place was a vineyard
surrounded by a stone wall. Against this they were posted while the firing
party was detailed.

Henkel, his bloodshot eyes aflame with ill-suppressed rage, stalked up to
them.

'I give you a last chance,' he said harshly to Ken. 'I have told the
others that you have certain information which I will take in exchange for
your lives. Give me your word that you will write that letter, and all
will be well.'

'You have had my answer,' said Ken quietly. 'Now go and watch us being
murdered.'

Henkel bit his lip savagely.

'Your blood is on your own heads,' he said hoarsely. 'I have given you
every chance.'

He stamped away, and as he did so took a handkerchief out of his pocket.

'When I drop this, fire,' he said curtly to the eight Turks who composed
the firing party.

'Good-bye, old chap,' said Ken to Roy.

'Oh, I don't know,' Roy answered. 'After all, we're going together.'

Ken hardly heard. He was still tortured with the feeling that it was
through him that Roy Horan and his father were to lose their lives. He
knew he was right, and yet--'

A sound like a maxim gun in the distance smote upon his ears. It grew
louder every instant. All, even Henkel, glanced upwards.

'Only an aeroplane, Ken,' said Roy in a whisper. 'By Jove, though, it's
one of our chaps.'

Across the rich blue of the evening sky a great Farman biplane came
sailing like a gigantic bird. She was barely five hundred feet up, and
heading straight for the village. What was more, she was actually coming
lower every moment.

Henkel, the other officer, the firing party, the bystanders--all stood
with their eyes fixed upon the plane. The cool insolence of her pilot held
them spellbound. For the moment Ken and Roy were absolutely forgotten.

Henkel was the first to recover himself.

'Shoot it down!' he bellowed. 'Shoot it down!' And the Turks, perhaps not
altogether sorry to find some other use for their bullets than the
slaughter of two helpless prisoners, raised their muzzles to the sky, and
began blazing away furiously. Even Henkel, Hartmann, and Von Steegman
hauled out their pistols from their belt holsters and fired for all they
were worth.

But a plane travelling