“Watch the fire!” I cried. “For your lives do not move an eyelid. Be still, and watch the fire for a little bird.”
Then I stretched my hands above my head and began the incantation, speaking loudly to drown the noise of the shutter. My arrangement with Hill was that I should go on reciting Welsh poetry until he got on his feet, which would be the signal that the camera was safely back in his pocket. I heard a second click while I was still in the middle of the first verse of “Bugeilio’r Gwenith Gwyn” and then I heard nothing more. I seemed to go on reciting for ages, and wondered what was up, and why the third click was so long in coming. I had finished a favourite Welsh lullaby and was plunging desperately into a Burmese serenade by way of variety when I noticed Hill was on his feet, standing quietly behind the Pimple. He gave an almost imperceptible nod as he caught my eye, and I broke off.
“The bird!” I shouted.
“The bird!” yelled Hill.
We both pointed to a neighbouring stone, and the Turks, who had remained motionless throughout the incantation, were galvanized into life again. Curiously enough, nobody had noticed the bird except Hill and myself! We had both distinctly seen it settle close beside the stone before it disappeared into thin air.
The Cook began to dig where we said the bird had settled. He dug with such vehemence that he broke his spade. Nothing daunted he fell to with the adze, and in due course he brought to light a tin can, about four inches long, carefully soldered at the ends and somewhat rusted.
“Spread the clean white handkerchief.” The Turks fully understood that it was not I who spoke, but the Spook through me.
Moïse obeyed.
“Now open the receptacle and empty it on to the handkerchief.”
As Moïse was forcing off the lid of the tin with his knife, Hill and I drank in the scene. The Commandant’s dark eyes were ablaze in a face as pale as death. The Cook, all wet with the sweat of his digging, bending forward with a hand on either knee, looked like savage greed personified. The Pimple could hardly master the excited trembling of his hands. His knife slipped and he cut himself.