CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"'Take your squadron and go find him, Rustum Khan!'
And I, sahib, obeyed my lord Bahadur's orders."
NEVER to be forgotten is that journey to Zeitoon. We threaded toward the heart of opal mountains along tracks that nothing on wheels—not even a wheel-barrow—could have followed. Perpetually on our right there kept appearing brilliant green patches of young rice, more full of livid light than flawless emeralds. And, as in all rice country, there were countless watercourses with frequently impracticable banks along which fugitives felt their way miserably, too fearful of pursuit to risk following the bridle track.
There is a delusion current that fugitives go fast. But it stands to reason they do not; least of all, unarmed people burdened with children and odds and ends of hastily snatched household goods. We found them hiding everywhere to sleep and rest lacerated feet, and there was not a mile of all that distance that did not add twenty or thirty stragglers to our column, risen at sight of us out of their lurking places. We scared at least as many more into deeper hiding, without blame to them, for there was no reason why they should know us at a distance from official murderers. Hamidich regiments, the militia of that land, wear uniforms of their own choosing, which is mostly their ordinary clothes and weapons added.
With snow-crowned Beirut Dagh frowning down over us, and the track growing every minute less convenient
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