gan the territorial jurisdiction of Banfy,
and the Lieutenant's authority was at an end. There too the deserter
followed him.

CHAPTER XI

SANGA-MOARTA

The Lieutenant and his comrade had already been more than twelve hours
in the wilderness of Batrina on their way to Marisel. Clement asked
everybody he met if the village were not near, always receiving the
same answer that it was still some distance farther. Now and then they
met a Wallachian peasant with an ox-team; the man shouting to his lazy
beasts, trying to goad them into a quicker gait. Then there was a pool
to wade through, where a half-naked, picturesque company of gypsies
washing the gold out of the sand, stared at the questioning strangers
like wild beasts. Sometimes along the road there would be the picture
of a saint in the mossy hollow of a tree, with only the dull gilding
left of the weather-beaten paint. In the natural niche there would be
the pomana,--a pitcher of spring water which some young Wallachian
girl, as an act of piety, had placed there for thirsty travelers.

The way led them through valleys and over heights, and the greater
part of their way they had to lead their horses by the bridle instead
of riding. On all sides was the forest, tall, slender beeches mingled
with dark green firs.

In one place they came to a fork of the roads; one way led along the
valley and the other to the top of a bald, steep mountain with
out-jetting cliff.

"Which way now?" said Clement. "I have never been so far."

"Take the traveled road," replied Zulfikar. "Only a fool would climb
this steep height. It probably leads to some foundry."

Clement looked doubtfully around him. Suddenly he caught sight of a
man seated on the rock overhanging the road. He was a young Wallachian
with white face and long curling hair; his leather coat was open on
his breast and his cap lay beside him on the ground. There he sat,
bent over on the edge of the high cliff dangling his feet in the air,
with his stony face in his hands gazing out into the distance.

"Ho there!" cried Clement, and in a mixture of Hungarian, Latin, and
Wallachian asked, "Which way does this road go?"

The Wallachian did not seem to hear the cry. He remained in the same
position, staring fixedly.

"He is either deaf or dead," said Zulfikar, when they had both shouted
at him in vain. "We had better follow the regular road."

And they set off on a trot. The Wallachian did not even look after