“You have him on the brain,” retorted his companion.—“There he goes!” he cried, the next moment.
And sure enough, about a mile down the mountain, a rider on a white horse was seen to flit rapidly across a heathy open and vanish among the trees on the farther side.
“In ten minutes he’ll be over the border into Gerolstein,” said Kuno. “It’s past cure.”
“Well, if he founders that mare, I’ll never forgive him,” added the other, gathering his reins.
And as they turned down from the knoll to rejoin their comrades, the sun dipped and disappeared, and the woods fell instantly into the gravity and greyness of the early night.