Meanwhile the men of Giulika’s party had been working like navvies, or rather, with much more alacrity than George had ever seen English navvies display. The discussion beyond the bend was still proceeding when a narrow passage for the gyro-car was completed.
“It is done, praise God!” cried Giulika, who, in spite of his years, had toiled as hard as any of the younger men. “Now I will tell my English friends what they must do. We cannot all go at once, because when those Moslem pigs beyond discover our absence they will follow at once, and we shall have gained nothing. It will be best for you to go on with your machine, while we remain to hold the path. Giorgio, poor unlucky one, is no good as a fighter until his wounds be healed: he will guide you.”
“Is it much further to the Drin?” asked Maurice.
“Not a great way, and presently the road will be easier. This track runs into a broader path when you come within sight of the Drin, and you will be able to make your machine buzz.”
“And you can hold the path behind us?”
“Surely we can. You have seen how slow those infidels are to face our bullets. Without doubt we can keep them back until our cartridges are all spent.”
Clearly the plan suggested by the old man was the best in the circumstances. George vaulted into the car to manipulate the brakes, the path now becoming a gradual descent, and Maurice and Giorgio walked ahead.
For some two miles they threaded their way between bluffs and precipices. There was no sound of firing behind them, which Maurice regarded as a favourable sign. But to his surprise Giorgio became more and more uneasy. Every now and again he stopped to listen, and to scan the path behind and the country around, where a view was possible.
“What are you troubled about?” asked Maurice.
“Why are there no shots, excellence?” Giorgio asked, in return.