He left half his party with the guns on the track to continue their march, and began to climb. It was a breakneck path, narrow, tortuous, and at times so steep that the troopers had to dismount and lead their horses carefully. They made slow progress, and when the Major reached a more level stretch and, looking through his field-glass, no longer saw any sign of the enemy, he decided that it would be waste of time and energy to follow any farther. He had just given the order to retire when the figure of a man suddenly appeared from the entrance of a ravine a few hundred yards ahead, and walked towards the troop, holding his hands above his head. Thinking that he was one of the enemy intending to surrender, the Major waited. "I know that man," said Lawrence after a few moments. "He’s an old Uzbek fellow, who lives quite alone somewhere in these hills, no one knows where. He comes to the mine at long intervals to buy food and ammunition in exchange for the horns and skins of _Ovis poli_. I suppose he’s on his way there now." "Can you understand his lingo?" "No; my uncle was the only one of us who could talk to him." The man approached. He was a strange object, the wrinkled skin of his face yellow like old ivory, a ragged white beard hanging almost to his waist. When he came up, he made some sort of salutation to Lawrence, and another to the Major, then muttered the word _kuzur_. "We all know what that means," said the Major; but he paused, struck by an eager look in Lawrence’s eyes as the old man made some pantomimic gestures and pointed in the direction whence he had come. Lawrence sprang from his horse. "He wants me to go with him, Major," he said hurriedly. "I believe--I hardly dare think it----" He did not wait to complete the sentence, but followed the old man, who was already walking back. They came to a narrow ravine, which wound away into the hillside towards the river, always at a steep descent. Passing along it, they came after some minutes to a well-built akoi, around which several skins lay drying. The man led Lawrence to the entrance, and motioned to him to go in. The lad’s heart was beating tumultuously. He paused a moment at the low opening, shrinking lest what he was about to see were a culminating spectacle of woe. In the middle of the tent there was a fire, the smoke of which passed out through a hole in the dome-shaped roof. Crushing down his agitation, he stepped in, his tread falling noiseless on a floor of thick skin rugs. Just beyond the fire lay the still form of a man. Holding his breath, Lawrence bent down, and looked upon the face of his uncle, asleep. Though his footsteps had been silent, the fact of his presence seemed to penetrate the consciousness of the sleeping man. He opened his eyes. "Ah, Lawrence," he said, "what is this I hear about great guns?" Lawrence could not speak. He clasped his uncle’s hand, and felt with a kind of surprise that it was warm as his own.