o--"

"How far is it?"

"'Bout four miles;" and then, "Got a match?"

"Yes--but it's dangerous to light up."

"Must 'ave a smoke--nothink to eat or drink."

"Well, here you are; light up inside my helmet."

He did; this hid the lighted match from any sniper's eye. The other
seven men came crawling out of the bushes to light up their "woodbines"
and fag-ends.

"Well, I'm off," said I, and once more went forward in the direction
pointed out by the corporal and his lost squad.

"So long, mate--good luck!" he shouted.

"Same to you!" I called back.

And now came sleep upon me. Even as I walked an awful weariness fell
upon every limb. My legs became heavy and slow. That short rest had
stiffened me, and my eyelids closed as I trudged on. I lifted them with
an effort and dragged one foot after the other. I knew I must get back
to my unit, and that here it was very dangerous. I wanted to lie down
on the dead grass and sleep and sleep and sleep. I urged my muscles to
swing my legs--for I knew if once I sat down to rest I should never keep
awake.

It was while I was thus trying to jerk my sleepy nerves on to action
that I came upon a zigzagged trench. It was fully six feet deep and
about a yard wide. It was of course an old Turkish defence running
crosswise along the great backbone of the Sirt. I knew now that I was
nearing the bay, for most of these trenches overlooked the beach.

There was a white object about ten yards from me. What it was I could
not tell, and a quiver of fear ran through me and threw off the awful
sleepiness of fatigue.

Was it a Turkish sniper's shirt? Or was it a piece of white cloth, or a
sheet of paper? In the gloom of night I could not discover.

However, I determined to go steady, and I crept up to a dark thorn-bush
and stood still. It did not move. Still standing against the dark bush to
hide the fact that I was unarmed, I shouted--

"Halt! who are you?" in as gruff and threatening a tone as I could
command.

Silence. It did not move. I ran forward along the trench and there
found a white pack-mule all loaded up with baggage; I could make out
the queerly worked trappings, with brass-coins on the fringed bridle
and coloured fly-tassels over the eyes. It was stone dead and stiff. Its
eyes glared at me--a glassy glare full of fear. The Turkish pack-mule
had been bringing up material to the Turks in the trench when it had
been killed--and now the deep sides of the trench were holding