Along the almost deserted streets stepped the war correspondent and his youthful companions. Every now and again a stretcher party would be met, one with their burden lying motionless and still, another with a soldier groaning and cursing in his agony: while from the distant desert came the rattle of musketry, punctuated by the deeper reports of the light field guns.
"Here we stop," exclaimed Mr. Reeves, as they gained a slight rise in the mimosa-studded sand. "You can see the firing line fairly distinctly, and we are less than a quarter of a mile from the supports. Take my glasses, Hugh, and you will bring the men within a few yards of you."
Hugh Frazer looked long and earnestly. He saw war almost face to face—merely a fringe of men firing from behind trenches, with smokeless powder, at an unseen foe.
"Is that all?" he asked disappointedly.
"Quite enough for you to see, Hugh," replied Mr. Reeves. "The other side of the picture is fortunately not visible."
"How about it, Rags?" exclaimed Gerald. "When are you going to give me a chance with those glasses?"
"Here you are, then." Hugh handed his chum the binoculars, and the next moment cried excitedly: "Look, Mr. Reeves, they've caught an Arab!"
Trudging across the sand came three Italian infantrymen. At a distance they looked very similar to English "Tommies" in their greenish-grey uniforms and tropical helmets; but on coming closer their rope-soled shoes, and gaiters, and rifles with long sword bayonets made the resemblance less apparent. Between two of the men walked a white-robed Arab, his hands tied behind his back, and his head held defiantly erect. The third soldier marched three paces in the rear.
This group formed but part of a long, straggling procession that seemed to increase in numbers rather than diminish, for men were falling fast, in spite of their shelter trenches.
"What are they going to do with that prisoner?" asked Gerald.