Allan jerked the binoculars to his eyes, and for a long moment peered through them.
His eyes widened. An expression of blank amazement, supreme wonder and vast incredulity overspread his face.
“What?” he exclaimed. “But--it's impossible! I--it can't be--”
Again he looked, and this time was forced to believe what seemed to him beyond all bounds of possibility.
“Our own people! The Folk!” he cried in a loud voice. And before his men could sense it he was out of the ravine.
His first thought was a relief expedition from Settlement Cliffs; but how could there be so many? Those who had remained at the colony were only twenty-five, all told, and in this long line that still at a good pace was defiling down the hillside already more than fifty had come to view, with more and ever more still topping the rise.
Utterly at a loss though he was, incapable of seeing any clue to the tremendous riddle, he still retained enough wit to hail the column, now passing down the slope some three or four hundred yards to westward.
“Ohé, Merucaan v'yolku!” he shouted between hollowed palms. “Yomnu! Troin iska ieri!”
Already his men had scrambled from concealment, and were waving hands and weapons, cloaks, burned brush wood, anything they could lay hands on, to attract attention. Their shouts and hails drowned out the master's.
But the meaning of the words mattered little. For the column on the hillside, understanding, had stopped short in its tracks.