"We're soldiers—prisoners of war, sir," said Sam. "You can't shoot prisoners of war."
"Indeed!" The blue eyes above the fair moustache looked innocently amused. "You call yourselves soldiers—to what corps do you belong? To what regiment? Where are your shoulder-straps?" He got angry suddenly. "Tell me at once what regiments—what time they passed here, or you go against that wall!"
Sam set his teeth and went pale. The consequences of their anonymity became plain to him. He met the eyes of the quick-witted little Cockney rogue. The cunning, ill-shaped face was lit with a feverish excitement.
"Don't yer see, mate?" he whispered eagerly. "Our chaps 'ave give 'em the slip. 'E wants to find out wot corps passed through 'ere——"
"Silence!—Answer, you!"
The fascinating blue eyes looked at Sam, almost mesmerised him.
"We're soldiers—prisoners o' war," he repeated doggedly.
"Soldiers! Soldiers without regiments—without corps! Prove it then, my man. Quick! I have no time to waste. Where are your shoulder-straps? Your identification papers?"
The trio remained silent. The officer adopted a more cajoling tone.
"Come, come, my man. You don't want to throw your lives away on a trifle. I am willing to treat you as prisoners of war if you prove to me that you are soldiers. Tell me your regiments."