But somebody among the shadowy tree-trunks at last seemed to think he recognized familiar attitudes, and asked again who we might be.  And, weary of explanations that only achieved delay our man lumped us all in one invoice and snarled irritably: 

“These are Americans!”

The famous “Open sesame” that unlocked Ali Baba’s cave never worked swifter then.  Reckless of possible traps no less than five men flung themselves out of Cimmerian gloom and seized us in welcoming arms.  I was lifted from the saddle by a man six inches shorter than myself, whose arms could have crushed me like an insect.

“We might have known Americans would bring us help!” he panted in my ear.  His breath came short not from effort, but excitement.

Fred was in like predicament.  I could just see his shadow struggling in the embrace of an enthusiastic host, and somewhere out of sight Will was answering in nasal indubitable Yankee the questions of three other men.

“This way!  Come this way!  Bring the horses, oh, Zeitoonli!  Americans!  Americans!  God heard us—­there have come Americans!”

Threading this and that way among tree-trunks that to our unaccustomed eyes were simply slightly denser blots on blackness, Will managed to get between Fred and me.

“We’re all of us Yankees this trip!” he whispered, and I knew he was grinning, enjoying it hugely.  So often he had been taken for an Englishman because of partnership with us that he had almost ceased to mind; but he spared himself none of the amusement to be drawn out of the new turn of affairs, nor us any of the chaff that we had never spared him.

“Take my advice,” he said, “and try to act you’re Yanks for all you’ve got.  If you can make blind men believe it, you may get out of this with whole skins!”

I expected the retort discourteous to that from Fred, who was between Will and me, shepherded like us by hard-breathing, unseen men.  But he was much too subtly skilful in piercing the chain-mail of Will’s humor—­even in that hour.

“Sure!” he answered.  “I guess any gosh-durned rube in these parts ‘ll know without being told what neck o’ the woods I hail from.  Schenectady’s my middle name!  I’m—­”

“Oh, my God!” groaned Will.  “We don’t talk that way in the States.  The missionaries—­”

“I’m the guy who put the ‘oh!’ in Ohio!” continued Fred.  “I’m running mate to Colonel Cody, and I’ve ridden herd on half the cows in Hocuspocus County, Wis.!  I can sing The Star-Spangled Banner with my head under water, and eat a chain of frankforts two links a minute!  I’m the riproaring original two-gun man from Tabascoville, and any gink who doubts it has no time to say his prayers!”

There were paragraphs more of it, delivered at uneven intervals between deep gasps for breath as we made unsteady progress up-hill among roots and rocks left purposely for the confusion of an enemy.  At first it filled Will with despair that set me laughing at him.  Then Will threw seriousness to the winds and laughed too, so that the spell of impending evil, caused as much as anything by forced separation from Monty, was broken.