The cavalcade had halted during this colloquy. All the men were ahead
conversing sullenly and excitedly with much gesticulation. The driver, a
stolid creature, seemingly indifferent to all that was going on, alone
remained at his post. The situation, apparently dangerous, was certainly
most annoying. But if Beverly could have read the mind of that silent
figure on the box, she would have felt slightly relieved, for he was
infinitely more anxious to proceed than even she; but from far different
reasons. He was a Russian convict, who had escaped on the way to
Siberia. Disguised as a coachman he was seeking life and safety in
Graustark, or any out-of-the-way place. It mattered little to him where
the escort concluded to go. He was going ahead. He dared not go back--he
must go on.
At the end of half an hour, the officer returned; all hope had gone from
his face. "It is useless!" he cried out. "The guides refuse to
proceed. See! They are going off with their countrymen! We are lost
without them. I do not know what to do. We cannot get to Ganlook; I do
not know the way, and the danger is great. Ah! Madam! Here they come!
The Cossacks are going back."
As he spoke, the surly mutineers were riding slowly towards the
coach. Every man had his pistol on the high pommel of the saddle. Their
faces wore an ugly look. As they passed the officer, one of them,
pointing ahead of him with his sword, shouted savagely, "Balak!"
It was conclusive and convincing. They were deserting her.
"Oh, oh, oh! The cowards!" sobbed Beverly in rage and despair. "I must
go on! Is it possible that even such men would leave--"
She was interrupted by the voice of the officer, who, raising his cap to
her, commanded at the same time the driver to turn his horses and follow
the escort to Balak.
"What is that?" demanded Beverly in alarm.
From far off came the sound of firearms. A dozen shots were fired, and
reverberated down through the gloomy pass ahead of the coach.
"They are fighting somewhere in the hills in front of us," answered the
now frightened officer. Turning quickly, he saw the deserting horsemen
halt, listen a minute, and then spur their horses. He cried out sharply
to the driver, "Come, there! Turn round! We have no time to lose!"
With a savage grin, the hitherto motionless driver hurled some insulting
remark at the officer, who was already following his men, now in full
flight down the road, and settling himself firmly on the seat, taking a
fresh grip of the reins, he yelled to his horses, at the same time
lashing them furiously with his whip, and started the coach ahead at a
fearful pace. His only thought was to get away as far as possible from
the Russian officer, then deliberately desert the coach and its
occupants and take to the hills.