The mystery was instantly plain to me. The man was smeared from head to foot with mud and blood, the traces of which he had tried to remove; and lying where his body had covered them were a knife and a small lantern; while a glance at his injured leg showed me that the splints had been all but torn off in the exertions of his night’s work.
He was a faithful servant to his masters, whoever they might be; and he had conceived the design of killing the only horses we had, in order to prevent the escape of the girl before his comrades could return to recapture her.
Waiting until the two men in the tent were fast asleep he had dragged himself, painfully and laboriously, through the mud to the shed, had shut himself in, and, by the light of the lantern he carried, had deliberately stabbed one horse after the other, putting on each the witch’s mark. He knew the superstition about it, of course, and trusted to that to save him from the risk of discovery. I had seen the slimy trail he had left in the mud, however, and had thus detected him.
With what dogged effort he had acted and the stoical endurance he had shown were evidenced by the condition of his wounded leg. The splints had been torn off, and he must have suffered excruciating agony in the grating of the fractured bones.
I taxed him with the deed, but he denied it, of course, and swore by every oath he could think of, Christian and Mahomedan alike, that he was innocent and had slept soundly the whole night through.
I drew Karasch aside. “You can see for yourself what happened,” I said, significantly and triumphantly. But his superstition was proof even against such evidence.
“You do not understand, Burgwan; I do,” he replied, in the same dismal fanatical tone.
“The thing can be seen as plainly as a mountain in the moonlight,” I exclaimed, impatiently. “He wants to prevent our getting away until his companions get here.”
But Karasch only shook his head.
“You can see that he did it, can’t you, man?”