"Do you know where we are?" asked Braid, turning to the guide.
"Yes," said the man. "We are towards the Maziri frontier. I recognize the mountains on the sky-line. There is a good place near at hand where we can hide, and where—even if we are discovered—we will be able to hold our own for many days."
"Let us go there," said Harry. "But where is your brother?"
No one answered. They peered into the faces of one another. The younger guide was missing.
Fernando, the man who had sworn an oath to kill the Black Dog, lifted his hands to his mouth and let out a long-drawn howl which was like that of a jackal, and which carried far in the stillness of the morning. It was a signal that his brother knew of old. Three times he repeated it, and each time lifted a hand to his ear, and stood listening expectant.
No answering cry came back. A death-like silence reigned over the valleys and forests and the mountain-side.
"He is lost?" asked Harry.
"He may have taken the wrong direction in the darkness. He may have been struck by a bullet. Who can tell? These things are in the hands of God."
"He may be somewhere near at hand," said Braid, hoping for the best.
Fernando shook his head.