Adventure, December 1914 — page 185: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Sinews of War guide. ‘Did the guspodine think we could ride much farther alone? This is a bad country. There are many Turkish raiding- parties abroad, and it is only safe to travel in large bands.” “So?” said I. Colonel Kurtsky?”’ ‘That I can not say definitely, guspo- dine,’ the fellow answered patiently. ‘He should meet us somewhere along this road beyond the forest and before morning.” We were already among the trees, and suddenly Stoyan gave a sharp growl and crowded over against my horse. All about us vague shapes had detached themselves from the shadows, Involuntarily my hand sought my pistol. Mannlicher carbine was jammed into my chest, and the voice of the guide, now hoarse and menacing, muttered: ‘“‘None of that, guspodine! Here, one of you,” he called to the shadows. ‘Come over here and search this eaglet.”’ Several started to obey, and Stoyan, who had been moving uneasily, reared up and flung himself at the nearest of them with a wolfish grr-rr-rr of savage rage. The man he attacked gave a startled cry of alarm and fell back. His cries were repeated. For a moment panic threatened as Stoyan fought for a grip on the man’s leg. Then a horseman draped in a long cloak, with a flat officer’s cap on his head, pushed into the midst of the mélée. “St. Ivan!” he snarled. ‘It’s only a dog. Shoot him, you sheep, shoot him!” But the men about me were afraid of shooting for fear of hitting each other, and I seized the opportunity to whistle to Stoyan. “Stoyan, Stoyan!” I called. dog! Follow on, follow on!” This was an order Masoya had taught him and meant that he should trail her at a distance. The dog shook himself free of the press, slipped under a horse’s belly and glided into the shadows of the trees. My captors wasted no time in pursuit. They seemed to be glad to get off so easily, and closed about me in a solid mass, trot- ting through the forest in a direction I cal- culated to be diagonally opposite to that we had been following. How long we rode I don’t know. I was very tired, and they bound my hands behind me which made it difficult for me to ride easily. The false dawn was whitening the east, however, “But where do we find “To heel, But the muzzle of a™~ 183 when we rode into a clearing in the center of which blazed a camp-fire, around which were grouped a troop of cavalry who wore the fez. I was in the hands of the Philistines with a vengeance. Our cavalcade halted at one side of the clearing, while the man in the uniform-cap rode forward and met two others, one of them obviously an officer by the smart tilt of his fez and his Arab mount, the other a European in riding-clothes. They chatted for a few minutes, and the man who looked like a European handed a slip of paper to the chief of the band that had captured me. They laughed over something, and then the officer turned in his saddle and whistled to two of his men who rode forward and placed themselves on either side of me. Then the man in the uniform-cap rode back and took a long look at me over the fold of his heavy cape which covered all of his face but his eyes—fierce, bleared eyes that looked oddly familiar to me. “Os bogu, Gus podine Blair,’’ he said mock- ingly. ‘I have placed you where you will no longer be a factor of international im- portance. In fact, I am consigning you to a friend who seems to be as interested in your welfare as Iam, myself. Os bogu.’’ He was Gortcheff. A cold shiver of dread passed over me as he laughed again and rode on, the motley band of komitajis following two by two at his heels. I had never dreamed the man was capa- ble of anything like this. The full meaning of it was not even clear to my mind at first. It was too shocking “‘“Good morning, Mr. Blair,” said a voice in English, with a strong German accent, at my elbow. CHAPTER XV THE CHOLERA STOCKADE AT SAN STEFANO UT this time I was not startled. I should have known those rasping tones anywhere, even without the Teutonic burr. “You believe in perseverance, don’t you, von Griffenstein?” I asked as I turned with some effort in my saddle and smiled to see his disgust that I failed to show concern. The man in riding-clothes was the Aus- trian spy. ‘You didn’t expect to end your ride as my guest, did you?” he replied. “Not exactly,” I said. NOOK C©