“Not yet. The mountain track winds and undulates so much that we shan’t catch sight of him till he comes to the ruins.”
“Well, I hope that won’t be yet, for if the Albanians are anything of marksmen, they can pick us off long before we get to the other side. And we can’t go any faster; these fellows are working splendidly. I suppose if we get through to Sofia safely your chief will reward ’em pretty handsomely.”
“It isn’t in the regulations, as the Customs officer told us,” said Maurice with a smile. “Still, I daresay we shall be able to do something for them—if we get through; we’re not out of the wood yet.”
By slow stages the party had advanced about a quarter of a mile into the swamp, and only forty or fifty yards yet remained, when there was the report of a rifle. Glancing round, Maurice saw a group of horsemen halted in the ruined village; several had dismounted. Then came three cracks in rapid succession.
“They’re no good!” cried George gleefully, when neither man nor car was hit.
“The range is too long for accurate shooting,” said Maurice, “but they can alter that. See, they are coming down, and much faster than we did.”
The horsemen were putting their steeds to a pace that seemed to the onlookers dangerous. Before they were half-way down the hillside, indeed, one of the horses stumbled, throwing its rider.
“He is an Austrian,” said Giulika laughing. “No Albanian, Christian or Moslem, would leave his saddle so quickly as that.”
On coming within a quarter-mile of the swamp the horses began to gallop; but the fugitives had advanced another sixty feet before they reached the edge. There the horsemen reined up, flung themselves from their saddles, and fired a scattered volley. Maurice looked grave as the shots whistled round, but the danger of the party was not so great as might be supposed, even had the Albanians been better marksmen, because the fugitives were not grouped, but marched in a line. The car itself formed the best target. One or two bullets struck its framework, and George felt a little nervous lest one should find its billet in the petrol-tank. But no harm was done until a shot struck Giorgio in the arm, just below the spot where his former wound was bandaged. He growled with rage; but his grandfather laughed at his ill-luck, and Maurice could not help smiling when Leka, the young man’s blood-foe, said cheerfully:
“Never mind. We’ll have besa until your wounds are healed.”