“We know, of course, in which direction your brigade is advancing, but from which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes Fittleworth advancing?” The three of them all knew this, for it was common gossip of the march. But the clerk from Lewisham said: “I don’t know.” The German turned from him to the Scotsman and repeated the question. “I don’t know,” answered the Scotsman. “From which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes Fittleworth advancing?” he said to Ned. “Naw! I doan’t know,” replied Ned. And then a horrible episode occurred. The German suddenly whipped out a revolver and shot the clerk from Lewisham through the body twice. He gave a faint cry and crumpled forward. Without taking the slightest notice of this horror, the German turned deliberately and held the revolver pointed at Ned’s face. In a perfectly unimpassioned, toneless voice he repeated: “From which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes Fittleworth advancing?” In the silence which followed, the only sound seemed to be the drone of some machine, probably from the electric-light plant. The face of Ned was mildly surprised but quite impassive. He answered without a moment’s hesitation: “Naw! I doan’t know.” There was a terrible moment in which the click of the revolver could almost be heard. It seemed to hover in front of his face for an unconscionable time, then suddenly the German lowered it with a curse, and leaning forward, he struck Ned on the side of his face with the flat of his hand. He treated the Scotsman in the same way, causing his nose to bleed. Both of the men remained quite impassive. Then he walked back to his seat, and said calmly: “Unless you can refresh your memories within the next two hours you will share the fate of—that swine. You will now go out to the plantation at the back and dig your graves. Dig three graves.” He spoke sharply in Arabic to the guards, and they were led out. They were handed a spade each, two Arabs held torches for them to work by, and four others hovered in a circle twelve paces away. The soil was light sand, and digging was fairly easy. Each man dug his own grave making it about four feet deep. When it came to the third grave the Scotsman whispered: “Dig deep, mon.” “Deeper than others?” “Ay, deep enough to make a wee trench.” “I see.”