“Have you anything that will make a flag?” asked Wylie of Zoe, without turning round. “Handkerchiefs? Right. Then hold it up straight—don’t show yourself, mind—and wave it towards the right. Our men can get round the end of the Roumi line in that direction.”
Seeing that, as he said, the cordon on that side was not complete, Zoe took heart again, though when the bullets came whizzing through the enclosure she had given up all for lost. She and Eirene unfastened the kerchiefs from their heads, and knotting them and their pocket-handkerchiefs together, she manufactured a small flag, and was tying it to the stick which Wylie had used to help him on the march when Zeko turned round and saw what she was doing. With a snarl of fury he tore the stick from her hand, and lifted his rifle as if to dash out her brains. Her involuntary cry made Wylie turn to see what was the matter, and he seized Zeko’s arm. The brigand offered no apology, but pointed for justification to the flag and to Zoe, pouring out a bitter accusation which she was too much shaken to understand.
“It’s all right,” said Wylie. “He thought you were trying to surrender behind our backs—hoisting the white flag, you know. I’ll explain.”
The scowl left Zeko’s brow gradually, but it was clear that his objection to the flag remained. At length, with an air of yielding gracefully to Wylie’s unreasonable demands, he pulled the bandage roughly from the arm of the man who had been hurt, and applied the flag to the wound until it was stained everywhere with blood. Then he handed it back to Zoe with a grin, and she conquered her disgust sufficiently to receive it and fasten it to the stick. It blew out well in the wind, but this made it very difficult to hold, as she lay behind the stones, alternately raising the stick erect and bending it down to the right, with the sun beating on her uncovered head. It was almost a relief when a bullet hit the stick—the flag served as an excellent mark for the enemy in front—and broke it in two, the wind immediately carrying the flag away. Noticing how hot the fire was getting, Wylie moved to the front with three of his men, and told Zoe to take her place with Eirene and Constantine in the most sheltered corner. There they crouched on the ground, in what ought to have been comparative safety, but it seemed a sort of imprisonment to Zoe, who could no longer see what was happening, or watch for the first sight of the relieving force. Moreover, the place, though the best they could find, was not really safe. As she and Eirene sat huddled together, a bullet entered at the loophole nearest them, passing through the head of the wounded insurgent, who sprang up convulsively and fell forward over the barricade, and striking one of the largest stones, which it shattered. Constantine, who had been watching the firing with intense interest, sprang into his mother’s arms with a frightened cry as the flying dust and fragments of rock filled the air. She drew the shawl about him, and he gave a little sigh as he hid his face in her bosom.
“Poor little Con!” said Zoe, when she could find her voice, “how tired he is! Think of going to sleep in the middle of this firing!”
Eirene looked up quickly. “Yes, of course he is tired—terribly tired.” The vague anxiety left her eyes, and her voice grew stronger as she repeated firmly, “It is just that. He is so tired.”
“No harm done, I hope?” said Wylie, looking round. “Keep as low down as you can.”
They obeyed, comforting themselves with the thought that no other bullet was likely to strike in the same place. But as Zoe watched, it seemed to her that the bullets were coming now from a different direction. One even came over the barricade from the back, and struck the ground. The enemy were firing down instead of up. She called out to Wylie.
“Yes, they’ve managed to get up there,” he answered in jerks, without turning his head. “It was when that unlucky shot killed Demo.”
Another man rolled over on his side, and his rifle clattered as it fell. Zeko reached across and took away his cartridge-belt, displaying to Wylie the few cartridges left, and muttering something which Zoe understood to be a prediction that if the women were not killed soon the Roumis would rush the sangar and get possession of them after all. Wylie took out his watch, but the face was smashed.