? They might turn upon us at any moment and cut
our throats, for there are only four of us. I vote for shooting them
out of hand."

It was an unpleasant voice this--a snappy, vixenish, sharp-toned voice,
which appeared to come from an individual of rather diminutive size,
though it was only his bare outline that was visible in the darkness
beneath the trees.

"Nasty little beggar," thought Henri; while Jules, now released, save
that one of the German officers still gripped him by the sleeve, stood
close to his comrade. "Nasty little beggar! Spiteful little rat! And
somehow we seem to have met before, for the voice rings in a familiar
way. But, pooh! it's not possible, or, rather, hardly possible."

A moment later there came the grating sound of a match being rubbed
against the side of a box, and then a light flared beneath the trees,
to be shaded instantly by the huge hand of the individual who held it,
and who proved to be the other spokesman--he of the pleasant voice--who
had listened to the suggestion of his comrade without answering. The
reflection of the flame held in his palm lit up at first a face beaming
with health and good humour, heavily moustached, and as red as was
Stuart's. There was a cigarette in his mouth, and Henri, attracted by
the light, watched as this German officer puffed at the flame and then
ejected a cloud of smoke. His own features, too, were illuminated by
that reflected light, and those of Jules also beside him, while an
instant later the face of that other officer came into view, the one
with the sharp, mean voice, who was for shooting his prisoners. Then a
sudden exclamation escaped the latter, and, starting forward just as
the flame expired, he stared hard at Henri and his comrade.

"What's this? What's this?" he demanded. "Strike another light,
Ernst. I have met these fellows before somewhere; I feel sure of it."

Grumblingly the big man who had just lit his cigarette struck another
light, and, sheltering the flame between his two broad palms, brought
it close to the faces of the prisoners, illuminating at the same time
his own features and those of the officer who had last spoken. One
glance was sufficient for Henri then, and in a moment his thoughts flew
back to Ruhleben, to that little hovel down in the corner of the
camp--the tool-house--which the Germans had considered even too good
for their unfortunate prisoners. And outside it; to that scene which
he and Jules