"What is it?" I asked the kouroudji. "Why are they behaving like this?"
The Turk turned to my brother. "The effendi knows?"
"I'm afraid I do. They smell blood."
"So they do, Bey Effendi. It is not the first time this accursed forest has been the grave of men. Allah kerim!"
He took hold of the bridles of both horses, and spoke to them in endearing terms. There is an understanding between Turks and horses as touching as the friendship between them and dogs.
From a monotonous and tedious journey, our ride, of a sudden, had become most exciting. Although the horses now followed the kouroudji obediently, they whinnied from time to time, and shivered.
"Don't be frightened," said my brother to me, "and whatever happens keep your head, and don't scream. Screaming will do no good, and it may lead to mishandling."
"But can't we go back, Mano?" I asked.
"We shall gain nothing by trying to. If a murder has been committed, we may come upon the corpse. If it is something else, we are already in the trap."
Before I had time to ask him what he meant by this, a shot was fired over our heads, and, simultaneously, a number of forms emerged from the forest.
