“It is a very long way to Prizren, and thence to Bulgaria,” objected Maurice.
“True; it is farther than to Monastir, and more hilly. But I tell you, friend, it is safer.”
“How could we go?”
“Along the banks of the Black Drin. It is a bad road; but not impossible.”
At this an idea struck Maurice. If they could gain the bank of the river, they might float down the current on the gyro-car without any expenditure of petrol. The river would only take them a short distance in the direction they wished to go, because it swept westward towards the Adriatic; but a river journey would have the advantage of keeping them off the frequented roads, and probably out of sight from the pursuers.
“How far is it to the river?” he asked.
“About five hours’ march to Struga, by the main road: about seven hours to the Drin below Struga, by the mountain paths. Why does my friend ask?”
“The machine you saw is a boat. Could we take it over the paths you mention?”
“You have brought it from Elbasan, by the mercy of God,” said the old man with a smile. “Why should you not take it to the Drin? For myself, I would not trust my life to it; but the Inglesi are great adventurers. The mountains to the north are higher than those you have passed, but I know of a pass that avoids the highest summits. The track begins but a little way behind this house; it climbs the hill, and then winds in and out among the lower slopes of the mountains above the Drin.”
All this time the old man had preserved a cheerful demeanour, evincing no anxiety as to what might be going on outside. The silence there seemed to Maurice suspicious. Slavianski had shown such persistence hitherto that he was hardly likely to draw back when, to all appearance, he had his quarry in a trap.