I've been scribbling on my cuff with my programme
pencil."
Soon he escaped, and made his way down to the garden gate, where Thwaite
was standing smoking. A _sais_ held a saddled pony by the road-side.
Lewis, in rough shooting clothes, was preparing to mount. From indoors
came the jigging of a waltz tune and the sound of laughter, while far in
the north the cliffs of the pass framed a dark blue cleft where the
stars shone. George drew in great draughts of the cool, fresh air. "I
wish I was coming with you," he said wistfully.
"You'll be in time enough to-morrow," said Lewis. "I wish you'd give
him all the information you can about the place, Thwaite. He's an
ignorant beggar. See that he remembers to bring food and matches. The
guns are the only things I can promise he won't forget."
Then he rode off, the little beast bucking excitedly at the patches of
moonlight, and the two men walked back to the house.
"Hope he comes back all right," said Thwaite.
"He's too good a man to throw away."
CHAPTER XXVII
THE ROAD TO FORZA
The road ran in a straight line through the valley of dry rocks, a dull,
modern road, engineered and macadamized up to the edge of the hills.
The click of hoofs raised echoes in the silence, for in all the great
valley, in the chain of pools in the channel, the acres of sun-dried
stone, the granite rocks, the tangle of mountain scrub, there seemed no
life of bird or beast.
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