Since no move could be made until it was quite dark, they sat down on the rocks and took a meal, eating sparingly of their provisions as a matter of prudence. Who could tell what the night and the morrow would bring forth? The Englishmen were amused at young Marco, who, munching a wheat-cake, solemnly watched their every movement, and eyed longingly the sandwiches they took from their tin. Burton beckoned him forward and gave him a sandwich. The boy took it, hesitated a moment, then shyly offered his wheat-cake in exchange, and ran back to his mother. "I’m afraid you’re in great pain, poor old chap!" said Burton, noticing the pallor and drawn expression of Enderby’s features. "Oh, that’s all right. I can stick it out. I rather fancy our German friend feels worse. It must be horribly galling to his nobility. What’s his name’?" The German was sitting apart, moodily gnawing his moustache. Burton went over to him, loosed his hands, and offered him a sandwich and his flask. The former he accepted with a sort of unwilling graciousness; the latter he declined. "Your visky I drink not; I haf in my own flask goot German vine. You permit me?" he asked, ironically. "Of course. It isn’t whisky, by the way. May I ask your name?" "It is Captain von Hildenheim. I am not pleased. Zis is not ze handling zat is vorth a German officer. Vunce more-- "Sorry. We can’t have it all over again. You must make the best of it. It won’t be for long." "No, zat is true; it vill not be for long," returned the German with a slight smile. "He evidently thinks we shall be collared to-night or to-morrow," said Burton, when, having bound his prisoner again, he returned to Enderby. "Have you got a cigarette in your case? Mine’s empty." He sat by his friend, smoking in silence, meditating as he watched the wreaths mingling with the mist in the growing darkness. Presently he got up, and went to the spot where the Serbs were grouped. Young Marco, wrapped in a rug, was already asleep on the cart. "What about this tower?" he asked the grandfather. "How is it placed? What is its strength and its state of repair? I don’t ask idly; an idea occurred to me just now." "I know it well," answered the old man. "Twenty years ago I held it during a Bulgar comitadji raid. It stands on a spur on the hill-top. The track passes not far beneath it. On two sides the ground forms a sort of glacis. The tower is solidly built of stone; it has two storeys. What is its condition, Milosh Nikovich? It is twenty years since I was there." "It is strong and sound, Marco Kralevich, except inside. They took me only into the lower room. The woodwork was rotted away, or perhaps some of it has been removed."