“I shouldn’t risk too high a speed,” said Maurice; “a single slip, and we’re over a precipice.”
“Don’t be nervous, old man. Those white minarets yonder should be Elbasan; but we can’t venture to put up for the night, can we?”
“I’m afraid not. It will be four o’clock by the time we get there, at a guess; we shall have to go on until it’s dark, and then either find a shelter in some village, or camp in the open. It will be quite impossible to run by night, as we did in Italy.”
“Well, luckily it’s fine. I suppose there are no wild beasts in these parts?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve got a fit of the blues,” said George. “I hoped we had seen the last of those fellows.”
“I confess I’m off colour too. There is evidently a good deal at stake with Slavianski, or he wouldn’t have kept it up so long. We have had good luck so far, but the country is getting wilder as we go on, and we shall come across the mountaineers before long. If we are held up, we shall be overtaken.”
“Confound your despatch!”
“I’m not troubled about my despatch,” said Maurice with a laugh; “that is, I don’t think Slavianski will find it. The bother is the delay. The Foreign Secretary would have risked the telegraph, I think, if he had had any inkling of Slavianski’s game.”
“Well, we’ve had some fun,” said George; “but I hope it’s not going to be spoilt now. I’d relish a stand-up fight, with a fair chance; but this handicap’s rather unfair, don’t you think so?”