The whole of these movements happened, of course, in the twinkling of an eye.  Macalister’s thoughts had been so full of his plans for the destruction of the officer that the advent of the bomb merely switched these plans in a new direction.  His first realized thought was of the man crouching beside and clinging to him, the quick following instinct to free himself of this check to his movements.  He was still on his knees, with the man on his left side; without attempting to rise he twisted round and backwards, and drove his fist full force in the other’s face; the man’s head crashed back against the trench wall, and his limp body collapsed and rolled sideways.  His mind still running in the groove of his set purpose, before his captor’s relaxed fingers had well loosed their grip, Macalister hurled himself across the trench and fastened his ferocious grip on the body of the officer.  He rose to his feet, lifting the man with a jerking wrench, and swung him round.  The swift idea had come to him that by hurling the officer’s body on top of the bomb, and holding him there, he would at least make sure of his vengeance, might even escape himself the fragments and full force of the shock.  Even in the midst of the swing he checked, glanced once at the spitting fuse, and with a stoop and a heave flung the officer out over the front parapet, leaped on the firing step, and hurled himself over after him.

It must be remembered that the burning fuse of a bomb gives no indication of the length that remains to burn before it explodes the charge.  The fuse looks like a short length of thin black rope, its outer cover does not burn and the same stream of sparks and smoke pours from its end in the burning of the first inch and of the last.  There was nothing, then, to show Macalister whether the explosion would come before his quick muscles could complete their movement, or whether long seconds would elapse before the bomb burst.  It was an even chance either way, so he took the one that gave him most.  Fortune favored him, and the roar of the explosion followed his flying heels over the parapet.

The officer, dazed, shaken, and not yet realizing what had happened, had gathered neither his wits nor his limbs to rise when Macalister leaped down almost on top of him.  The officer’s hand still clung to the pistol he had held, but Macalister’s grasp swooped and clutched and wrenched the weapon away.

“Get up, my man,” he said grimly.  “Get up, or I’ll blow a hole in ye as ye lie.”

He added emphasis with the point of the pistol in the other’s ribs, and the officer staggered to his feet.

“Now,” said Macalister, “you’ll quick mairch—­that way.”  He waved the pistol towards the British trench.

The officer hesitated.

“It is no good,” he said sullenly.  “I should be killed a dozen times before I got across.”

“That’s as may be,” said Macalister coolly.

“But if you don’t go you’ll get your first killing here, and say naething o’ the rest o’ the dizen.”