Rising, he retraced his steps towards the camp. He had just entered the shade of the grove, when something suddenly tensed his whole being into an attitude of listening. His heart beat, and the blood in his veins pulsed through a breathless pause. Yes, he had heard aright. Once again on the still night air it swelled and died, the old, never-to-be-forgotten, age-enduring drone of the _saz_, beaten in the Turkish trenches. Listening there, alert, his face turned to the moon-bathed valley. He was a boy again, the old impulse upon him. As a dream, his years fell from him. This was Amasia and the moon peered into the gorge, silvering the weirs of the old stream. Louder and louder, changeless and potent as ever, the night air pulsated with the immortal music of the East. He turned and went towards it, then halted with a short laugh at the strangeness of it all, a medley of thoughts dancing through his brain to those exotic strains, thoughts of deserted khans, crowded bazaars, a cowering Armenian, the tragic dumb eyes of a Turkish boy, and another boy, in a book-lined room playing a piano. Then a voice suddenly cut sharply across the whispered suggestion of the night. "Dean!" it rang. "Here--coming!" answered John, shivering with a nervous chill. He blundered across the stubble, scratching his bare knees. The figure of Sanderson loomed out of the darkness. "Good heavens, Dean, I thought you'd been kidnapped--it's twelve o'clock and we're off at four." Sanderson had come up close now, and John's face shone clear and blanched in the moonlight. Its expression alarmed the younger man. "I say--what's the matter?--you look hypnotised!" "Rubbish," John laughed uneasily. "I'm cold, that's all." They walked back to the tent in silence and turned in. II It seemed only a few minutes later that the batman awakened them in the dark tent. Outside there was a movement of feet and voices coming from the darkness. Hastily John and Sanderson dressed, in warm things this time, for the morning air was very cold. All the machines were out of the canvas hangars, lined up for the flight. There were muffled figures and voices. The mechanics stood by; there was an intermittent roar of an engine as it started up and died down again. Sanderson climbs into his seat, John following. This first five minutes is trying to the nerves, his fingers are cold and he shivers slightly. They have said good-bye to the Wing Commander who has wished them good luck. Some will not return again, but their thoughts do not dwell on the fact. Sanderson turns his head and smiles. "All right, Dean?" he calls. "Yes."