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ten seconds with his hands
loose; but still he did not speak.
At the end of ten minutes the officer's patience was exhausted.
Macalister was thrust back against the trench wall, and the officer drew
out a pistol.
"In five minutes from now," he gritted, "I'm going to shoot you. I give
you the five minutes that you may enjoy some pleasant thoughts in the
interval."
Macalister made no answer, but worked industriously at the lashings on
his wrists. The bandage stretched and loosened, and at last, at long last,
he succeeded in slipping one turn off his hand. He had no hope now for
anything but death, and the only wish left to him in life was to get his
hands free to wreak vengeance on the dapper little monster opposite
him, to die with his hands free and fighting.
The minutes slipped one by one, and one by one the loosened turns of
the bandage were uncoiled. The trenches at this point were apparently
very close, for Macalister could hear the crack of the British rifles, the
clack-clack-clack of a machine gun at close range, and the thought

flitted through his mind that over there in his own trenches his own
fellows would hear presently the crack of the officer's pistol with no
understanding of what it meant. But with luck and his loosened hands
he would give them a squeal or two to listen to as well.
Then the officer spoke. "One minute," he said, "and then I fire." He
lifted his pistol and pointed it straight at Macalister's face. "I am not
bandaging your eyes," went on the officer, "because I want you to look
into this little round, round hole, and wait to see the fire spout out of it
at you. Your minute is almost up ... you can watch my finger pressing
on the trigger."
The last coil slipped off Macalister's wrist; he was free, but with a curse
he knew it to be too late. A movement of his hands from behind his
back would finish the pressure of that finger, and finish him.
Desperately he sought for a fighting chance.
"I would like to ask," he muttered hoarsely, licking his dry lips, "will ye
no kill me if I say what ye wanted?"
Keenly he watched that finger about the trigger, breathed silent relief as
he saw it slacken, and watched the muzzle drop slowly from level of
his eyes. But it was still held pointed at him, and that barely gave him
the chance he longed for. Only let the muzzle leave him for an instant,
and he would ask no more. The officer was a small and slightly made
man, Macalister, tall and broadly built, big almost to hugeness and
strong as a Highland bull.
"So," said the officer softly, "your Scottish courage flinches then, from
dying?"
While he spoke, and in the interval before answering him, Macalister's
mind was running feverishly over the quickest and surest plan of action.
If he could get one hand on the officer's wrist, and the other on his
pistol, he could finish the officer and perhaps get off another round or
two before he was done himself. But the pistol hand might evade his
grasp, and there would be brief time to struggle for it with those
bayonets within arm's length. A straight blow from the shoulder would

stun, but it might not kill. Plan after plan flashed through his mind, and
was in turn set aside in search of a better. But he had to speak.
"It's no just that I'm afraid," he said very slowly. "But it was just
somethin' I thought I might tell ye."
The pistol muzzle dropped another inch or two, with Macalister's eye
watching its every quiver. His words brought to the officer's mind
something that in his rage he had quite overlooked.
"If there is anything you can tell me," he said, "any useful information
you can give of where your regiment's headquarters are in the trenches,
or where there are any batteries placed, I might still spare your life. But
you must be quick," he added "for it sounds as if another attack is
coming."
It was true that the fire of the British artillery had increased heavily
during the last few minutes. It was booming and bellowing now in a
deep, thunderous roar, the shells were streaming and rushing overhead,
and shrapnel was crashing and hailing and pattering down along the
parapet of the forward trench; the heavy boom of big shells bursting
somewhere behind the forward line and the roaring explosion of trench
mortar bombs about the forward trench set the ground quivering and
shaking. A shell burst close overhead, and involuntarily Macalister
glanced up, only to curse himself next moment for missing a