Without, the elements stormed and raged. For two whole days at a time they would be unable to see outside their mountain abode, so thick and unyielding were the mists that encompassed it, and the rain poured down unceasingly, while now and again the roll of intermittent thunder would shake the mountain peaks in stunning reverberation the night through, and the red gleam seek out every corner of their cave abode. And when the mists parted, they gazed down upon shiny rock surfaces labyrinthed with ragged black chasms, or the dark wildness of a juniper forest swept by the wreaths of the flying scud.
But this state of comparative peace was not to last—was, in fact, destined to be brought to a most startling termination. One morning Mehrab Khan, who had been away on a foraging expedition, failed to return. The day passed, and still no Mehrab Khan. Night likewise failed to bring him, and now things began to look serious for these two, for their food supply was all but exhausted. As for the Baluchi, there was only one conclusion to be arrived at—he had been found by the enemy, and either killed or detained as a prisoner. As for themselves, something must be done, for it was clear they could not remain there to starve. With his own knowledge of the country, supplemented by further detail which Mehrab Khan had given him, Raynier thought he could find the way to Mazaran.
It was scarcely daylight when they started from their place of refuge. The weather had cleared overhead, but the ground was miry and slippery to the last degree, so much so indeed that, until they should reach smoother and more level ground, the horses were of more hindrance than help. But at the start Raynier discovered that his steed had gone dead lame to such an extent that to ride it would be downright dangerous here, where cliffs and slippery slopes abounded. It was decided to abandon the animal.
“Seems as if our troubles were beginning over again,” he said ruefully. “By Jove, it looks as if the story about the Syyed’s tangi was going to prove true again in our case.”
He spoke half jestingly, glancing at her the while. To his surprise she was looking very serious.
“No,” she answered. “I don’t think so. At least, unless—No—it’s of no use. I can’t see.”
She had passed her hand over her eyes, as he had seen her do on that strangely memorable night, and her face wore the same dreamy look. That, he knew, accounted for the seeming incoherence of her words. For Hilda Clive possessed in some degree the gift of clairvoyance, and what she saw now in front of them she preferred not to tell him just then. Whatever it was it took no definite shape in her own mind, hovering there vague but ominous. He looked at her curiously.
“Well, we’ll cheat that superstition yet,” he said, with a gaiety that was just a trifle forced.
They made but sorry headway, the horse slipping and stumbling to such an extent that Hilda preferred to walk, so that by the time day had fairly dawned they were scarcely more than three miles from their starting-point. It was deemed advisable to go into hiding once more, and here they were forced to finish what little food remained.
Towards dusk they started again. An unaccountable and wholly unwonted depression had come upon Hilda, while her escort, walking beside her horse, began to feel strangely weak and faint. He supposed it was the result of recent bad living and want of exercise, and then, with a chill of dismay, he recognised the infallible symptoms of his old fever. No—this would never do. He must pull himself together; and by way of doing this, he stumbled and fell dizzily forward.