And then, as I crossed the little dry-bed stream and came out upon a
sandy spit of rising ground: "Z-z-ipp! Ping!"--just by my left arm.
The bullet struck a ledge of white rock with the now familiar metallic
"tink!"

I went on moving quickly to get behind a thorn-bush--the only cover
near at hand. Here, at any rate, I should be out of sight.

"Ping!"

"Crack--ping!"

I could hear the report of the rifle. I lay flat on my stomach,
grovelled my face into the sandy soil and lay like a snake and as
still as a tortoise.

I waited for about ten minutes. It seemed an hour, at least, to me.
The sniper did not shoot again. In front of my thorn-bush was an open
space of pale yellow grass, with no cover at all. I crawled towards
the left flank and tried to creep slowly away. I moved like the hands
of a clock--so slowly; about an inch at a time, pushing forward like a
reptile on my stomach, propelling myself only by digging my toes into
the earth. My arms I kept stiff by my side, my head well down.

But the sniper away behind that little pear-tree (which stood at the
far end of the open space) had an eagle eye.

"Ping! z-z-pp! ping!"

I lay very still for a long time and then crept slowly back to my