There was no moon, and but few stars were shining. When Cumner's Son
first set out from Mandakan he could scarcely see at all, and he kept his
way through the native villages more by instinct than by sight. As time
passed he saw more clearly; he could make out the figures of natives
lying under trees or rising from their mats to note the flying horseman.
Lights flickered here and there in the houses and by the roadside. A
late traveller turned a cake in the ashes or stirred some rice in a
calabash; an anxious mother put some sandalwood on the coals and added
incense, that the gods might be good to the ailing child on the mat; and
thrice, at forges in the village, he saw the smith languidly beating iron
into shape, while dark figures sat on the floor near by, and smoked and
murmured to each other.

These last showed alertness at the sound of the flying sorrel's hoofs,
and all at once a tall, keen-eyed horseman sprang to the broad doorway
and strained his eyes into the night after Cumner's Son. He waited a few
moments; then, as if with a sudden thought, he ran to a horse tethered
near by and vaulted into the saddle. At a word his chestnut mare got
away with telling stride in pursuit of the unknown rider, passing up the
Gap of Mandakan like a ghost.

Cumner's Son had a start by about half a mile, but Tang-a-Dahit rode a
mare that had once belonged to Pango Dooni, and Pango Dooni had got her
from Colonel Cumner the night he escaped from Mandakan.

For this mare the hill-chief had returned no gift save the gold bracelet
which Cumner's Son now carried in his belt.

The mare leaned low on her bit, and travelled like a thirsty hound to