“None near enough, still—­”

“You have hope, then—­”

“Just a little—­I have an idea—­if we can go on running two hours—­have you a flint and steel?”

“Yes, and a loaded pistol and a knife.”

“Good!  That is better than I thought.  But don’t talk.  We shall want every bit of breath in our bodies before we have done.  This way!  By the cane-piece there!”

With heads erect, arms well back, and our chests expanded to their utmost capacity we sped silently onward; and although we do not despair we realize to the full that we are running for our lives; grim Death is on our track and only by God’s help and good fortune can we hope to escape.

Across the savanna, past corn-fields and cane-pieces we race without pause—­looking neither to the right nor left—­until we reach the road leading to the hills.  Here we stop a few seconds, take a few deep breaths, and then, on again.  So far, the road has been tolerable, almost level and free from obstructions.  But now it begins to rise, and is so rugged withal that we have to slow our speed and pick our way.  Farther on it is the dry bed of a torrent, cumbered with loose stones and erratic blocks, among which we have to struggle painfully.

“This is bad,” gasps Carmen.  “The hounds must be gaining on us fast.”

“Yes, but the scent will be very catching among these stones.  They won’t run fast here.  Let us jump from block to block instead of walking over the pebbles.  It will make it all the better for us and worse for them.”

On this suggestion we straightway act, but we find the striding and jumping so exhausting, and the risk of slipping and breaking a limb so great, that we are presently compelled to betake ourselves once more to the bed of the stream.

“Never mind,” says Carmen, “we shall soon be out of this valley of stones, and the hounds will not find it easy to pick up the scent hereabout.  If we only keep out of their jaws another half-hour!”

“Of course, we shall—­and more—­I hope for ever.  We can go on for another hour.  But what is your point?”

“The azuferales.”

“The azuferales!  What are the azuferales”

“I cannot explain now.  You will see.  If we get there ten or fifteen minutes before the hounds we shall have a good chance of escaping them.”

“And how long?”

“That depends—­perhaps twenty.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, lead on.  It is life or death?  Even five minutes may make all the difference.  Which way?”

“By this trail to the right, and through the forest.”

The trail is a broad grass-grown path, not unlike a “ride” in an English wood, bordered by trees and thick undergrowth, but fairly lighted by the moonbeams, and, fortunately for us, rather downhill, with no obstacles more formidable than fallen branches, and here and there a prostrate monarch of the forest, which we easily surmount.