“Blood, excellency,” said their guide with a careless shrug.
They lifted the field-glasses which were slung over their shoulders, and scanned the surrounding country. For some time they saw nothing but the rocks and crags, the dark fir forest below, the snow-clad peaks above. But presently there were more shots, and now they descried, far away, but in the direction of the road they were travelling, several puffs of smoke. Then, a sunbeam lighting the spot, they saw four men crouching behind some rocks, with rifles in their hands.
“I say, Maurice,” said George, “do you see that one of those fellows is a European?”
“D’you think so?”
“I am sure of it. I can’t see his features, but he’s a European by the cut of him. I suppose he’s a traveller attacked by brigands. Hadn’t we better lend a hand?”
“I think you’re right,” said Maurice, after a long look through his glass. “There are some Albanians creeping round the hill above them to take them in the flank.”
“Yes; I see their white caps. Come on. There are not too many of them for us to tackle. The traveller is probably an Englishman; no one else would tour in Albania at this time of year.”
They had dismounted to rest their horses after the climb. Springing to their saddles, they rode down the hill as fast as they dared, in spite of the expostulations of their guide, who declared in much agitation that it would be fatal to intervene between Albanian mountaineers and “blood.”
There was a cessation of the firing. In a few moments the combatants were concealed from view by the craggy cliffs; but hurrying on, the riders came on the scene at a moment when the European and the two Albanians with him were hard pressed by a dozen men, who had surrounded them, and were on the point of charging home. Letting out a shout, Maurice fired his revolver, and with George at his side dashed to the rescue.
The attacking party paused in astonishment. At the same moment the European, whose back had hitherto been towards the riders, turned his head.