Ken glanced at his captors. He saw that they were Turkish constabulary, and his heart sank. These men, trained by Germans, paid by them, and soaked in their brutal tenets, were among the small minority of Turks who had really come to share the German hatred of the British.
They glared fiercely at their prisoners.
'British swine!' growled one, and spat in contempt.
'They are spies,' said another. 'We find them three miles behind our lines. Why do we waste time taking them prisoners? Let us hang them and be done with them.'
'Why not let them run and ride them down?' suggested another. 'Sticking with a lance is a fit fate for hogs.'
But the sergeant, a tall, swarthy faced man with a pair of fierce black eyes, pushed his way forward.
'Fools, these are the men who escaped last night from Captain Hartmann. We have his orders to bring them before him. It will go hard with you if you disobey. Shackle them both, and send them to him under guard.'
He flung down two pairs of handcuffs, and one of the men who was holding Ken picked them up, while another seized his wrists.
It was on the tip of Ken's tongue to protest fiercely against this indignity, but he checked himself. It would be better, he remembered, that these men should not know that he spoke their language.
Roy was fighting like a fury. Three of the troopers had their work cut out to hold him. As it was, he managed to get one hand loose, and before the others could seize it again one of their number lay insensible on the ground with his nose broken and flattened against his face.