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give an
excuse for the punishment he suspected would result from the officer's
displeasure. But his silence did not save him.
"Sulky, eh, my swine-hound!" said the officer. "But I think we can
improve those manners."

He gave an order in German, and a couple of men stepped forward and
placed their bayonets with the points touching Macalister's chest.
"If you do not answer next time I speak," he said smoothly, "I will give
one word that will pin you to the trench wall and leave you there. Do
you understand!" he snapped suddenly and savagely. "You English
dog."
"I understand," said Macalister. "But I'm no English. I'm a Scot"
The crashing of a shell and the whistling of the bullets overhead moved
the officer, as it had the others, to a more sheltered place. He seated
himself upon an ammunition-box, and pointed to the wall of the trench
opposite him.
"You," he said to Macalister, "will stand there, where you can get the
benefit of any bullets that come over. I suppose you would just as soon
be killed by an English bullet as by a German one."
Macalister moved to the place indicated.
"I'm no anxious," he said calmly, "to be killed by either a British or a
German bullet."
"Say 'sir' when you speak to me," roared the officer. "Say 'sir.'"
Macalister looked at him and said "Sir"--no more and no less.
"Have you no discipline in your English army?" he demanded, and
Macalister's lips silently formed the words "British Army." "Are you
not taught to say 'sir' to an officer?"
"Yes--sir; we say 'sir' to any officer and any gentleman."
"So," said the officer, an evil smile upon his thin lips. "You hint, I
suppose, that I am not a gentleman? We shall see. But first, as you
appear to be an insubordinate dog, we had better tie your hands up."
He gave an order, and after some little trouble to find a cord,

Macalister's hands were lashed behind his back with the bandage from
a field-dressing. The officer inspected the tying when it was completed,
spoke angrily to the cringing men, and made them unfasten and re-tie
the lashing as tightly as they could draw it.
"And now," said the officer, "we shall continue our little conversation;
but first you shall beg my pardon for that hint about a gentleman. Do
you hear me--beg," he snarled, as Macalister made no reply.
"If I've said anything you're no likin' and that I'm sorry for masel', I
apologize," he said.
The officer glared at him with narrowed eyes. "That'll not do," he said
coldly. "When I say 'beg' you'll beg, and you will go on your knees to
beg. Do you hear? Kneel!"
Macalister stood rigid. At a word, two of the soldiers placed themselves
in position again, with their bayonets at the prisoner's breast. The
officer spoke to the men, and then to Macalister.
"Now," he said, "you will kneel, or they will thrust you through."
Macalister stood without a sign of movement; but behind his back his
hands were straining furiously at the lashings upon his wrist. They
stretched and gave ever so little, and he worked on at them with a
desperate hope dawning in his heart.
"Still obstinate," sneered the officer. "Well, it is rather early to kill you
yet, so we must find some other way."
At a sentence from him one of the men threw his weight on the
prisoner's shoulders, while the other struck him savagely across the
tendons behind the knees. Whether he would or no, his knees had to
give, and Macalister dropped to them. But he was not beaten yet. He
simply allowed himself to collapse, and fell over on his side. The
officer cursed angrily, commanding him to rise to his knees again; the
men kicked him and pricked him with their bayonet points, hauled him
at last to his knees, and held him there by main force.

"And now you will beg my pardon," the officer continued. Macalister
said nothing, but continued to stretch at his bonds and twist gently with
his hands and wrists.
The officer spent the next ten minutes trying to force his prisoner to
beg his pardon. They were long and humiliating and painful minutes
for Macalister, but he endured them doggedly and in silence. The
officer's temper rose minute by minute. The forward wall of the firing
trench was built up with wicker-work facings and the officer drew out a
thick switch.
"You will speak," he said, "or I shall flay you in strips and then shoot
you."
Macalister said nothing, and was slashed so heavily across the face that
the stick broke in the striker's hands. The blood rose to his head, and
deep in his heart he prayed, prayed only for