“We had better keep to the river,” said Maurice to George. “It is joined by the White Drin some distance to the north, and if I am not mistaken, Prizren, the old Servian capital, is not far from the confluence. From there we can make our way to the railway, and then we can either go by train to Nish and change there for Sofia, or make straight across country, whichever seems best. We shall find somebody to advise us in Prizren.”
“Whatever you like, old man,” said George. “At present I want nothing but a rest. Look how my hand trembles.”
“My dear fellow, you are dead beat, and no wonder. Let me take your place. We can float on the stream, and I can steer.”
“What’s wrong?” asked George, seeing his brother wince as they changed places.
“Oh, I’ve got a scratch on my leg—nothing to speak of.”
“Let’s have a look.”
On examination it proved that the bullet had passed through the flesh just above Maurice’s right knee. Luckily it had not severed an artery. They dipped their handkerchiefs in the stream and extemporised a bandage.
“That will do until we get to Prizren,” said Maurice. “Now take it easy.”
“What about Giorgio?”
“He must leave us at the bridge they spoke about. I daresay his friends will meet him there. We can’t take him with us out of the way of his blood-foe; probably he wouldn’t come if we asked him, so far from his home, and he would be of no use to us as a guide. But we owe a great deal to old Giulika and his family, and must do something to repay them.”