“Do you think we are out of danger here?” he asked. “I think so, sir” (we were three miles from the firing-line). A few paces further on-- “I wonder how far the firing-line is?” “Couldn't say, sir.” A yard or so, and then-- “D'you suppose the British are advancing?” “I hope so.” And after a minute or two-- “I wonder if there are any Turks near here...?” I made no answer, and marvelled greatly that the “man of God” should not be better prepared to meet “his Maker,” of Whom in civil life he had talked so much. It was just then that I spotted it--a little black figure, motionless, away beyond the bushes on the right. CHAPTER XII. THE SNIPER-HUNT He lay flat under a huge rock. I left the stretcher-squads, and, crawling behind a bush, looked through the glasses. It certainly was a Turk, and his position was one of hiding. He kept perfectly motionless on his stomach and his rifle lay by his side. I sent a message to pass the word up to the leading squads for Hawk. Quickly he came down to me and took the glasses. He had wonderful sight. After looking for a few seconds he agreed that it looked like a Turkish sniper lying in wait. “Let's go and see, anyway,” said I. “Chance it?” “Yes.” “Righto.” Hawk led the way down into the thorn-bushes and dried-up plants. I followed close at his heels. We crouched as we went and kept well under cover. Hawk took a semicircular route, which I could see would ultimately bring us out by the side of the rock under which the sniper hid. Now we caught a glimpse of the little dark figure--then we plunged deeper into the rank willow-growth and bore round to the right. Hawk unslung the great jack-knife which hung round his waist and silently opened the gleaming blade. I did the same. “I'll surprise him; you can leave it to me to get in a good slash,” said Hawk, and I saw the great muscles of his miner's arms tighten. “But if he gets one in on me,” he whispered, “be ready with your knife at the back of his neck.” A few steps farther brought us suddenly upon the rock and the sniper. Hawk was immediately in front of me, and his arm was held back ready for a mighty blow. He stood perfectly still looking at the rock, and I watched his muscles relax. “See it?” he said. “What?” “Dead.” There was the Turk--a great heat-swollen figure stinking in the sunshine. As I moved forward a swarm of green and black flies, which had been feeding on his face and crawling up his nostrils, went up in a humming, buzzing cloud. A bit of wood lying near had looked like his rifle from a distance; and now we saw that, instead of lying on his stomach, he was lying on his back, and looked as if he had been killed by shrapnel. “Putrid stink,” said I; “come on--let's clear out.” And so our sniper-hunt led to nothing but a dead Turk stewing in the glaring sunshine. We rejoined the squads. No one had missed us. This first day was destined to be one of many adventures. CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE PACK-MULE