“Lord, I was one of those who went from Akri when the message came of the spoil at hand. The Lord Romanos was angry that we had forsaken our posts, but said he would make use of us before sending us back. Under his orders we attacked the convoy, which was encamped in no order, every cart having halted where it chose—an easy prey. But it was a trap, and nothing more. In the carts, under the coverings, were men—Roumis—and upon us, as we fought with them, came other Roumis from behind, while in front the Pasha’s camp turned out at the alarm. We saw that an ambush had been laid for us, and that death was at hand, and every man sought only to slay as many of the accursed as possible before dying himself. I saw the Lord Romanos struck down, fighting with sword and revolver, and the accursed raised a mighty shout. How I escaped I know not, but I found myself on the outskirts of the fight, and the sea not far off, and life was strong within me. Therefore I flung myself from the rocks, and sometimes swimming, and again wading along the shore, I passed the hills and the isthmus, and seeing the Roumis at Karakula, cast myself into the sea once more and reached this place, which is now little better——”
“Lord!” a panting herald of disaster burst into the group and confronted Maurice, “the Roumis are firing from Akri, and the sons of freedom fall fast. Is it your pleasure that they should hold the breastwork until all are slain?”
“I will come,” said Maurice.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BITTER END.
Inside the breastwork commanding the path the defenders were crouching close under the loopholes to avoid the fire which was being poured in by a strong body of riflemen posted on Akri. Several dead bodies lay unheeded behind them, victims of the first volley, and most of the men had received wounds. They met Maurice with a subdued cheer as he crawled in among them.
“You will not keep us here to be shot, lord?” they questioned him eagerly. “You will give the word for us to dash upon the bayonets, and kill as we are killed?”
“You would be shot down before you could cover half the distance. No, lie still, and don’t reply to the fire. Then they may think we are all killed, and try to rush the breastwork.”
But even as Maurice spoke, he remembered that the enemy on Akri could pour in a volley that would kill all his men the moment they rose to their feet, and he began to wonder whether he ought to withdraw them one by one while the Roumis in front were still lying down and taking long shots. If this line were pierced, the way would be open, with only occasional obstacles, to the defences surrounding the monastery itself, and when they were attacked, then it would indeed be the beginning of the end. But could the line be held? “Oh, if only Wylie were here!” he breathed, and started when one of the men laid a hand upon his arm, and directed his attention to the dry stream-bed behind a projecting rock which afforded a sheltered entrance to the breastwork from the rear. There was Wylie, haggard and unshaven, holding fast with both hands to the packsaddle of the mule on which he was precariously perched, riding down towards the threatened point, his guards accompanying him with sullen faces. The enemy on Akri seemed to detect a reinforcement in the half-seen forms moving behind rocks and bushes, and sent a volley in their direction for a change. The mule was hit, and came down on its knees, the guards dragging Wylie off just in time. Maurice crawled back to meet him, and found him sitting upon a stone, hardly able to speak.
“This is madness!” said Maurice. “Let them take you back at once.”
“Akri gone?” asked Wylie, speaking slowly and with difficulty, and paying no attention to his friend. “Send ten men with Mausers up here,” indicating the protecting rock above him. “Just cover enough—enfilade Akri—keep down fire.”