the ridge, the arms and weapons of its occupants still waving wildly,
and their voices raised in loud hysterical argument that faded with
distance.
The Ras's cannon boomed again, speeding them on their way, and Vicky
slowed the car as they came up to him. Jake reached down and helped
the ancient gentleman aboard.
His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like an abandoned brewery, but
his wizened old face was crinkled into a wicked grin of satisfaction.
'How do you do?' he asked, with evident relish.
'Not bad, sir, 'Jake assured him. 'Not bad at all.' little before
noon, the formation of armoured cars parked in the open grassland
twenty miles beyond the wells. A halt had been called here to allow
the straggling mass of refugees that had escaped the slaughter at
Chaldi to come up with them, and this was the first opportunity that
Vicky had to work on Sara's leg. It had stiffened in the last hour,
and the blood had clotted into a thick dark scab. Though Sara made no
protest, she had paled to a muddy colour and was sweating in tiny beads
across her forehead and upper lip as Vicky cleaned the wound and poured
half a bottle of peroxide into it. Vicky sought to distract her as she
worked by bringing up the subject of the dead they had left scattered
about the water, holes under the Italian guns.
Sara shrugged philosophically. 'Hundreds die every day of sickness and
hunger and from the fighting in the hills.
They die without purpose or reason. These others have died for a
purpose. They have died to tell the world about us--' and she broke
off and gasped as the disinfectant boiled in the wound.
'I am sorry,' said Vicky quickly.
'it is nothing, 'she said, and they were quiet for a while, then Sara
asked, 'You will write it, won't you, Miss Camberwell?'
'Sure,' Vicky nodded grimly. 'I'll write it good. Where can I find a
telegraph office?'
'There is one at Sardi,' Sara told her. 'At the railway office.'
'What I write will burn out their lines for them, 'promised Vicky, and
began to bind up the leg with a linen bandage from the medicine chest.
'We'll have to get these breeches off you.' Vicky inspected the
bloodstained and tattered velvet dubiously. 'They are so tight, it's a
wonder you haven't given yourself gangrene.'
'They must be worn so,' Sara explained. 'It was decreed by my
great-grandfather, Ras Abullahi.'
'Good Lord.' Vicky was intrigued. What on earth for?'
'The ladies in those days were very naughty,' Sara explained primly.
'And my great-grandfather was a good man. He thought to make the
breeches difficult to remove.' Vicky laughed delightedly.
'Do you think it helps? 'she demanded, still laughing.
'Oh no, Sara shook her head seriously. 'It makes it very hard.' She
spoke with the air of an expert, and then thought for a moment. They
come down quickly enough it's when you want to get them up again in a
hurry that can be very difficult.'
'Well, the only way we are going to get you out of these now is to cut
you loose.' Vicky was still smiling, as she took a large pair of
