Presently, between him and Isla Water, a shadow moved. He fired; and around them the darkness spat flame from a dozen different angles.
"Damnation!" he whispered to himself, realising now what the sunlit moors had hidden—a dozen men all bent on murder.
Once a voice hailed him from the thick darkness promising immunity if he surrendered. He hesitated. Who but he should know the Boche? Still he answered back: "If you let this woman go you can do what you like to me!" And knew while he was saying it that it was useless—that there was no truth, no honour in the Boche, only infamy and murder. A hoarse voice promised what he asked; but Miss Erith caught McKay's arm.
"No!"
"If I dared believe them—"
"No, Kay!"
He shrugged: "I'd be very glad to pay the price—only they can't be trusted. They can't be trusted, Yellow-hair."
Somebody shouted from the impenetrable shadows:
"Come out of that now, McKay! If you don't we'll go in and cut her throat before we do for you!"
He remained silent, quite motionless, watching the darkness.