An end was put to his reverie by the appearance of the aide-de-camp, who brought him the king's despatches, and that evening he quitted Belgrade. As he gave a last glance at the wayfarers who loitered about the streets and at the doors of the cafes, cigarette in mouth, with their richly inlaid swords and long pistols stuck in their showy scarves, and with muskets slung behind them, looking very picturesque—he thought they would, at the same time, be unpleasant fellows to meet in some lonely place in a land where police are scarcely known.
He took a farewell glance of the Danube, studded with tiny villages, their churches and minarets, with Servians on one side fishing in curious little boats, Hungarians on the other tending their flocks, with vast mountains towering in the distance, and then rode quickly on what was now his homeward way.
Continuing his journey along the left bank of the Morava, the close of the second day found him, as he supposed, within thirty miles of Deligrad (from which General Tchernaieff had moved to fight his victorious battle), when it became painfully certain to Cecil that he had too evidently taken a wrong path and lost his way, in a very lonely district, where few persons were to be seen, and where neither his German nor Italian availed in making inquiries.
Of the Roman road he had been pursuing—a road old as the days of Trajan—all traces had disappeared, and he found himself in a narrow forest path, overshadowed by huge pines, where he would be certain of not finding a guide, as such places are avoided at night, as being the haunt or abode of the vilas, evil spirits who can assume all shapes, but especially that of the cuckoo, according to Servian superstition.
Hence it was, perhaps, that two wood-cutters whom he saw, fled at the approach of a mounted figure, looming tall in the forest—and these were the men who pocketed the Austrian ducats of Pelham and Stanley.
Fires glowed redly here and there upon the distant hills—doubtless from copper and iron mines; but twice, isolated rockets described their fiery arcs athwart the darkening sky; what this might indicate, he knew not; but urged his horse onward by the narrow path, which descended abruptly now.
He thought he could hear the murmur of a great current—the flow of a river; but could discern nothing then, between the stems of the trees, or in the starless sky overhead—for in Servia the twilight—the gloaming, as the Scots call it—is very brief, and when the sun goes down, utter darkness, with amazing rapidity, envelops all the scenery.
Now an involuntary cry escaped him, as his horse, though at a walk, toppled heavily forward, and before he could respire a second time, he and it were both immersed in the current of a dark and rapid stream, too evidently the Morava.
The bank over which they had fallen was too steep to make the least attempt to return that way possible. He took his feet from his stirrups, held up his horse's head, and guiding it gently with the stream and towards the other side, uttered an exclamation of joy, as he felt its feet touching the ground. But ere he left the stream, the trunk of a tree that came surging past, struck him from the saddle; yet he clutched his reins, and stumbled ashore, bringing the horse with him.
He was safe, but, after a brave man's natural emotion of gratitude to God for that safety, a cry of dismay escaped him, on finding that his sword-arm hung powerless by his side.