“Humph! yes,” said Mr Burne hopefully. “We may meet them coming back before long.”
They each drank and rose refreshed.
“Come, Yussuf,” said the professor. “This way.”
“No, effendi,” he exclaimed sharply; “not that way, but this.”
“What do you mean?” cried Mr Preston, for the guide pointed up the ravine instead of down.
“The horses have not been frightened, but have been stolen—carried off.”
“Nonsense, man!” cried Mr Burne.
“See!” said Yussuf, pointing to the soil moistened by the stream that ran from the source, “the horses have gone along this little valley by the side of the stream—here are their hoof-marks—and come out again higher up beyond this ridge of the mountain. Yes: I know. The valleys join again there beyond where we were to-day, and I ought to have known it,” he cried, stamping his foot.
“Known? Known what, man?” cried Mr Burne angrily.
“That those men, who I said were travellers, were the robbers, who have seized our horses, and carried everything off into the hills.”