Without saying another word, the scout glided swiftly forward. He was promptly followed by the sergeant. Next moment both men leaped on the Turks and had them by their throats.
Eskiwin was no match for Gotsuchakoff, who bore him back and held him like a vice. As for Ali Bobo, strong though he was, he felt himself to be a perfect baby in the grasp of the scout. The two men submitted at once, and while Petroff ordered them in a low tone to keep silence, enforcing the order with the touch of a revolver’s muzzle, the sergeant quickly bound their arms behind them.
The scout turned to the prisoner, who was sitting on the ground with eyes dilated to the uttermost, and mouth wide open. He sat perfectly speechless.
There was just light enough to make darkness visible. Petroff looked close in to the face of the man whom he had been about to stalk.
“Lancey!” he exclaimed.
“Dobri Peterhuff,” gasped the other.
“Why, where did you come from?” asked the scout in Turkish, which he was aware Lancey had been attempting to learn.
“Dobri, my friend,” replied the other solemnly, in English, “if this is a dream, it is the most houtrageous dream that I’ve ’ad since I was a babby. But I’m used to ’em now—only I do wish it was morning.”
The scout smiled, not because of what was said, which of course he did not understand, but because of the Englishman’s expression. But time pressed; too much had already been lost. He therefore contented himself by giving Lancey a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned to the sergeant.
“Gotsuchakoff,” said he, “I’m out on special service, and have already been delayed too long. This man,” pointing to Lancey, “is an Englishman and a friend—remember that. The others are Turks. You know what to do with them. I cannot help you, but you won’t need help.”