At midday the guide caught sight of the sheikh, still bearing towards the south-east. His white robes were conspicuous at a distance.
On the opposite side of the valley in which they found themselves, the man was hurrying forward along a ledge that did not appear to be more than a few feet across, that hung—as it were—between earth and sky. Beneath this ledge, the smooth face of a precipice dropped sheer to the depths of the valley; above, the same inaccessible cliff continued, rising upward to the clouds.
"If Cortes were only here," said the half-caste, "the task would be easy; the Black Dog would be ours."
"Where is your brother?" asked Harry.
"I am inclined to think he is somewhere toward the north. For the last three days the wind has been blowing from that direction. Had he been to the south he must have heard the shot I fired, in which case he would have caught us up."
"Perhaps," said Harry, "he returns by the way we came."
"It may be," said the guide. "Sooner or later, he will discover his mistake. Then he will come south; but he and Braid will be many miles in rear of us. If Cortes were with me now, I could capture the sheikh before sunset."
"How?"
"You see where he is," said the guide, pointing across the valley. "He walks on the brink of one precipice and at the foot of another. He can turn neither to the right nor to the left. He must either go straight on or else turn back. My brother can run faster than you or I. If he were with us, I would send him down the valley in all haste, to ascend the mountain-path in advance of the sheikh; whilst I would mount to the path at this end of the valley. Thus the Black Dog would be caught between us two."
Harry looked at the great, yawning abyss that arose before them like a mighty wall. The figure of Bayram was not more than two miles away. In mid-valley was a stream that flowed through a narrow strip of grassland, upon which it would be possible to run.