With an effort I roused myself and examined the “witch’s” mark on each of the beasts. A circle had been cut with the point of a sharp knife, the mark being just skin deep.
“How did they die, do you think, Karasch?”
He pointed again to the marks and smiled grimly, as though the cause were too plain to need words.
“And all this blood?” I asked.
He shrugged his great shoulders.
I looked at Gartski and the third man closely, for any sign that they had had a hand in it; but their superstitious fear was too genuine to be doubted.
“Turn the horses over,” I ordered; but they shrank away and obstinately refused to put a finger near them.
“Who is smeared with the blood of a witch-killed beast dies before the moon is old,” said Karasch. “They must burn where they lie.”
“You’re a set of fools,” I cried angrily. But neither anger nor request was heeded.
I took the iron bar from the door, and levering it under the smallest of the horses turned the carcase over sufficiently to find what I sought—the cause of death. There was a wound just under the heart. The horse had been stabbed with a sword or long knife. Whoever had done the work knew where and how to strike so as to kill instantly.