It would be difficult to say who were the most taken aback: the Boches at the sight of a khaki-clad man who might or might not be the foremost of a party of trench raiders, or Malcolm on finding himself confronted by a score of fully-armed Germans.
The New Zealander's first impulse was to unsling his rifle. By use of his magazine he might drive the Huns into the next bay, and, profiting by the diversion, effect a smart retirement. The weapon was useless; the piece of shell that had smashed the butt had jammed the bolt action. The rifle was little better than a broken reed.
Malcolm turned and ran, but he had forgotten his sprained ankle. Before he had taken a couple of strides his legs gave way under him, and like a felled ox he collapsed upon the duck-boards.
Even as he lay prostrate his wits did not desert him. At all costs the note entrusted to him by his captain must be destroyed. Although ignorant of its contents, Malcolm felt assured that it was of great importance, otherwise Captain Nicholson would not have sent anyone across the open under a hail of bullets. With a deft movement the trapped rifleman removed the paper from his pocket and conveyed it to his mouth, and before the approaching Huns were upon him he had swallowed the paper.
Ten seconds later he was in the grip of three hulking Saxons, who promptly bound his wrists behind his back and propped him up against the fire-step of the trench. The others, having satisfied themselves that the prisoner was an isolated straggler, crowded round and regarded him with undisguised interest.
Unable to understand a word Of German, Malcolm was at a loss to follow their excited conversation. He managed to glean that there was a discussion as to what the Huns would do with their prisoner. One particularly villainous-looking Boche was apparently advising that he should be shot outright, fingering the trigger of his rifle as if in joyous anticipation of playing the joint rôle of judge and executioner.
This amiable proposal was overruled by the others, and, after the prisoner had been searched and his belongings confiscated, Malcolm was marched along the trench, preceded and followed by men with loaded rifles.
Almost every yard of the way was occupied by troops. The men regarded the passing of the prisoner with slight interest. Their attention was principally directed upon some distant object, as if they were momentarily expecting an attack.
By one of those freaks of misfortune Rifleman Carr had completely lost his bearings, and in his wanderings had made his way towards the German trenches instead of towards the village of Messines. The shells and bullets that had given him such a warm time had come from his own lines, and in endeavouring to seek cover he had stumbled upon a temporarily-unoccupied section of the original enemy support-trenches. Even then he had no warning of his expensive mistake until he literally walked into a trap, the bay being filled with Saxons of the 209th Reserve Regiment.
Conducted into a deep and spacious dug-out, the prisoner was brought before two German officers. One, a major, was short and corpulent. Bald-headed, of florid complexion, and with abnormally-puffed eyelids, magnified still more by a pair of heavy convex glasses, the Saxon had Landsturmer written all over him. His companion was a tall, cadaverous lieutenant of about twenty-five, narrow-chested, and with protruding shoulder-blades. His hawkish features, upturned moustache, and colourless skin gave him a truly Machiavellian aspect. He wanted only a pointed beard and a ruff to complete the living representation of a sixteenth-century portrait of one of the ruffianly Margraves of the Palatinate.