"George," panted Osterberg, as he drew up alongside his friend, "we can't keep this up. Can't we take the scrub and hide?"
"Not yet, not yet, keep going, we shall find a place soon."
Just then a light appeared among the trees to their right, and inspired with fresh hope they renewed their exertions, searching vainly for a path by which to reach it. Suddenly an idea struck George.
"Never mind the light. Here, take this path to the left. Arden and his Arabs are sure to think we have made for that light in the hopes of assistance."
Without hesitation they turned to the left, and in a few minutes came to an open gate in the boundary fence. For a second they paused to listen and recover their wind.
"You were right, George," whispered his companion, "I cannot hear the footsteps, they have gone in the other direction. Come along, let's hurry. Do you know where we are?"
"Haven't the faintest notion," was the comforting reply.
"Well then, I suppose we must trust to luck. Which way?" he asked, as they stepped into the dusty road.
George glanced quickly up and down. He saw some twinkling lights to the right.
"There we are, that's the town," and the two set off again at a run.