Fear and dread were strong within me. The September sun was shining down upon our heads. The road was rutted—full of holes and covered with sharp stones. I knew that we would get little enough to eat. As for water, they would let our tongues rot at the root before they would satisfy our thirst.
The country was wild and rugged. Hardly a house—or what you might call a house—was to be seen over vast stretches of it. Where the land was tillable there rooted in the weeds a few starved cattle, who gazed at us stupidly as we passed. Once in a while we came to a hut—a small place built of native rock with a low thatched roof hidden amidst a clump of scrawny trees and high straggling bushes. When a face appeared at the door, there was always a look of suspicion upon it as though we were surely enemies and to that the owner usually had a weapon of some kind in his hand, ready to defend himself in case he was attacked, or to drive us away if we invaded his land.
Shortly after noon we came to a halt to rest the horses and snatch a bite to eat. The men who had taken us seated us on a rock and drew a circle about us while one of their archers stood with his bow in his hand ready to shoot if any of us tried to escape.
Then we were up again and on our way. We plodded on and on over the hard surface of the road. Weariness began to show in our faces. In a little while I caught a small stone in my boot. It slipped down and rested under my heel. It bored and bored till I began to feel the pain of it. I stooped to loose the thong with the intention of easing myself. But the moment I halted the rope that tied me to the saddle grew taut. I was snatched along with a jerk and with a tightening about my waist that was so sudden that it caused me even more grief than the stone.
I limped along with my heel glowing like the heat of a fire. To make it worse the captain looked at me with a smile and laughed.
“If the rope were around your neck,” he said, “it would be more fitting.”
The others must have thought it was a fine jest for they, too, broke into mirth and clapped their hands on their thighs.
Towards the middle of the afternoon I could hardly drag one foot after the other. I was in despair with my head down. Suddenly it came up with a snap for the horses reared back on their hind legs. They neighed and lifted their noses in the air as though they were frightened. I had to jump from one side to the other to keep from being trodden underfoot. The shouts of the riders drew my attention to an object to the left of us on a huge rock not twenty paces from where we had halted.
It was a man. He was standing on his hands with his head down. His feet were in the air. And what made him so ridiculous—it was this that had frightened the horses—he was kicking with his legs with all the energy in his body. So great was his exertion that we expected to see him drop at any moment. But the longer he kept it up, the greater his strength seemed to grow. At length after several minutes he came to a sudden stop, tossed his body in the air with a lithe movement of his wrists and landed on the surface of the rock flat on his feet.
My nerves jumped and the men with us uttered a low exclamation of surprise. We all recognized him at once, for each of us, quite in the same breath, called out his name, “The Dwarf of Angers!”