“Who are you? Who sent you?” asked the puzzled voice.
Peter had a happy thought. “The Companions of the Rosy Hours,” he said.
“Then are we friends indeed,” said the voice. “Come out of the darkness, friend, and I will do you no harm. I am a good Turk, and I fought beside the English in Kordofan and learned their tongue. I live only to see the ruin of Enver, who has beggared my family and slain my twin brother. Therefore I serve the Muscov ghiaours.”
“I don’t know what the Musky Jaws are, but if you mean the Russians I’m with you. I’ve got news for them which will make Enver green. The question is, how I’m to get to them, and that is where you shall help me, my friend.”
“How?”
“By playing that little tune of yours again. Tell them to expect within the next half-hour a deserter with an important message. Tell them, for God’s sake, not to fire at anybody till they’ve made certain it isn’t me.”
The man took the blunt end of his bayonet and squatted beside the bell. The first stroke brought out a clear, searching note which floated down the valley. He struck three notes at slow intervals. For all the world, Peter said, he was like a telegraph operator calling up a station.
“Send the message in English,” said Peter.
“They may not understand it,” said the man.
“Then send it any way you like. I trust you, for we are brothers.”