“Is it a lie,” I said, “that my friend has been badly wounded? Is it a lie that I have been hurt?”
There was a low growl for reply from one, and the other—the man who had first discovered my presence—only said, “But you are spies.”
“What are they all saying, Val?” said Denham coolly. “I don’t seem to get on at all in this game.”
“They say we’re spies,” I replied.
“Let ’em. A set of thick-headed pigs. Don’t be downhearted over it all, old chap. We played our game well, and we’ve lost. We’re prisoners; that’s all. They daren’t shoot us.”
I looked him fixedly in the eyes, but made no reply.
“Well,” said Denham hurriedly, “it’s murder if they do. But I don’t believe they will. Whatever they do, we won’t show the white feather, Val. I say, shall we give ’em the National Anthem?”
“Hush!” I said. “You’re a gentleman; don’t do anything to insult them; we’re in their power.”
“Yes; but I want them to see that we’re ready to die game. I say, Val, we’ve made a mess of it this time, and we might have been lying comfortably asleep over yonder.”
“No,” I said; “we should have lain awake thinking of how to get help for our friends.”