“Yes. Wait!” gasped Lalanté, holding up a hand.
The sound was repeated. It came from some distance lower down, and took shape as a hail. The girl even thought to descry in it her own name, and to both it came as a very voice from Heaven.
“Man—Lalanté,” panted Frank, in uncontrollable excitement, “but that’s Mr Warren.”
“Yes, it is. Why, then in that case, Charlie’s there too, for I know he’d never leave him,” answered the girl tremulously and half-laughing, in the nervous reaction of her gratitude. Then she lifted her own voice in a loud, clear call that might have been heard for miles in the stillness. They listened a moment, and an answering hail was returned.
“Come. They may still need our help,” she said. “Go steady though. We mustn’t exhaust ourselves this time.”
First sending forth another long, clear call, to which Frank added the shrillness of his small but carrying voice, they started off along the river bank. It seemed miles, hours, as they stumbled along, now over a stone, now crashing into a bush—but every now and then sending forth another call, which was answered, thank God, now much nearer. At last, through the gloom, for by this it was almost dark, they made out two figures coming slowly towards them.
“Charlie—my darling, whatever made you do it?” began Lalanté as she hugged the smallest of these; womanlike mingling a touch of scold with the joy of the restoration.
“Oh, Lala, you’re not cross, are you? I couldn’t help it,” was the answer, in a tired voice.
“Cross—cross! Oh, you darling, how should I be cross!” raining kisses all over the wet little face. Then, unclasping one arm, she held out a hand.
“Oh, Mr Warren!” was all that she could say, but it seemed to express everything.