"Oui, Mademoiselle," returned the officer, then repeating his question in French.
"Yes," she replied. "A few minutes ago a man galloped from the stream, past the copse, and rode auay along the side of the hill."
"Merci bien, Mademoiselle," said the lieutenant, translating the information for his men.
They at once began to hunt for the tracks, and in a few moments spied the hoof-marks of a galloping horse. One of them discharged his rifle to bring up the rest of the troop, who had scattered over the face of the country, endeavouring to pick up the trail of the fugitive. Some were already galloping off in the direction indicated by Gabriele. Soon the rest of the Buriats came riding by in twos and threes, until the whole band was in full cry up the hillside.
Gabriele remained at the window shelling peas until she was sure that the last horseman had passed. Then she took a bottle of home-grown wine from the missionary's store, filled a cup and gave it to her old nurse to carry, and returned with the ladder to the tree.
"It is I," she said as she approached. "I am bringing you wine."
Mounting into the tree, she handed down the cup. Jack drained it at a draught.
"You are suffering?" said the girl.
"Not much. It is a flesh wound; I have lost some blood, and was faint. I am better now."
"You must remain in the tree. The danger is not yet past; but have patience. I dare not stay longer; they will come back soon. Hope on."