Now, though
he rode through a bewitching air through an enchanted land, he did not
ride in a dream. All his being was alert and sagacious. Though the
confusion of footprints in the dust showed plainly where men had
passed by thousands, he did not follow their lead. Over the tangle of
marks lay a slim paw-printed, confident, careless trail of a jackal,
following the scent to a well. The Maccabee was obedient to the
instinct of the animal instead of the reason of man. At the end of
that trail, surer than Ariadne's scarlet thread in the labyrinth, he
knew that thirst had taken the girl in the dress of silver tissue. So
as he rode along this faultless highway that fared level and
undeviating by arches, causeways and bridges across mountains, over
black marshes and profound valleys, he kept his eyes on the jackal's
trail.
Long after moonrise they came to a spot in the road where the human
marks passed on, by hundreds, by other hundreds deserted the road and
clambered up the side of the hill. Over this deviation the jackal had
trotted. The Maccabee, tall on his horse, raised his fine head and
searched all the brooding shapes of the hills about.
The road at this point ran through a defile. On either side the slopes
crowded upon the pass. Above them were bold summits with groves of
cedars, and in one of these the Maccabee made out a thin curl of smoke
dimly illuminated by a moon-drowned fire.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95