In the dusk of starlight Durand saw Zmai dismount and felt the Servian’s big rough hand touch his in passing the bridle of his horse.

“Wait!” said the Servian.

The horse of the unknown paused, neighed again, and refused to go farther.  A man’s deep voice encouraged him in low tones.  The horses of Chauvenet’s party danced about restlessly, responsive to the nervousness of the strange beast before them.

“Who goes there?”

The stranger’s horse was quiet for an instant and the rider had forced him so near that the beast’s up-reined head and the erect shoulders of the horseman were quite clearly defined.

“Who goes there?” shouted the rider; while Chauvenet and Durand bent their eyes toward him, their hands tight on their bridles, and listened, waiting for Zmai.  They heard a sudden rush of steps, the impact of his giant body as he flung himself upon the shrinking horse; and then a cry of alarm and rage.  Chauvenet slipped down and ran forward with the quick, soft glide of a cat and caught the bridle of the stranger’s horse.  The horseman struggled in Zmai’s great arms, and his beast plunged wildly.  No words passed.  The rider had kicked his feet out of the stirrups and gripped the horse hard with his legs.  His arms were flung up to protect his head, over which Zmai tried to force the sack.

“The knife?” bawled the Servian.

“No!” answered Chauvenet.

“The devil!” yelled the rider; and dug his spurs into the rearing beast’s flanks.

Chauvenet held on valiantly with both hands to the horse’s head.  Once the frightened beast swung him clear of the ground.  A few yards distant Durand sat on his own horse and held the bridles of the others.  He soothed the restless animals in low tones, the light of his cigarette shaking oddly in the dark with the movement of his lips.

The horse ceased to plunge; Zmai held its rider erect with his left arm while the right drew the sack down over the head and shoulders of the prisoner.

“Tie him,” said Chauvenet; and Zmai buckled a strap about the man’s arms and bound them tight.

The dust in the bag caused the man inside to cough, but save for the one exclamation he had not spoken.  Chauvenet and Durand conferred in low tones while Zmai drew out a tether strap and snapped it to the curb-bit of the captive’s horse.

“The fellow takes it pretty coolly,” remarked Durand, lighting a fresh cigarette.  “What are you going to do with him ?”

“We will take him to his own place—­it is near—­and coax the papers out of him; then we’ll find a precipice and toss him over.  It is a simple matter.”

Zmai handed Chauvenet the revolver he had taken from the silent man on the horse.

“I am ready,” he reported.

“Go ahead; we follow;” and they started toward the bungalow, Zmai riding beside the captive and holding fast to the led-horse.  Where the road was smooth they sent the horses forward at a smart trot; but the captive accepted the gait; he found the stirrups again and sat his saddle straight.  He coughed now and then, but the hemp sack was sufficiently porous to give him a little air.  As they rode off his silent submission caused Durand to ask: