The worthy Dick grumbled terribly; not at the prevailing discomfort, but that having womenkind to look after he was debarred from joining any field force—at all events for the present—for the plan which we heard formulated for the raising of such a force under the command of Lamont was of necessity in abeyance by reason of the disappearance of the latter.
Disappearance, indeed, was the word. The men who were with him when flying for their lives had been utterly unable to tell when or where they had lost sight of him. They had, however, been able to guide the relief party under Peters and Wyndham to the place within the hills where they had been first attacked. But—no trace of him whom they sought. Farther on, they came upon the bodies of two others of the stragglers—as usual, hacked and mutilated—those of their horses, similarly treated, lying hard by. But of Lamont there was absolutely no trace. He seemed to have disappeared, horse and man.
The situation contained one hopeful feature. If there was no trace of him in life, equally was there no trace of his death; no blood marks, such as would probably have been the case. The innumerable footprints of the pursuing Matabele might have obliterated such, yet it was improbable that to experienced spoor-readers—and there were several here—some trace, however faint, should not be discernible; and herein lay room for hope.
The missing man might be in close hiding among the kopjes. To this end, Peters and his force spent a long time searching the wild and broken ground, and, incidentally, shooting an odd Matabele or two engaged in outlying scouting. But the search proved futile; moreover, a large impi—far too large for them to engage unless they desired to court disaster—appeared on their front, effectually barring further advance. Sorrowfully they returned to the Kezane to report their failure.
That was a day destined to remain engraved in lurid letters on Clare Vidal’s memory as long as she should live. She would not have believed the human mind to be capable of bearing so acute a stage of anguish as that which filled hers when the party returned, without—him. But with her it took no form of tears or hysteria. Pale, stony-eyed, she asked her questions calmly, and with coolness and acumen. Had they really searched exhaustively. Was it likely he had been taken prisoner? In a word—was there any hope?
“There’s life, you must remember, Miss Vidal,” had answered the officer in command of the Scouts. “The very fact of finding no trace of him shows that he was not killed there, at any rate. If he has been captured—well, prisoners have been known to escape. There have been instances of such.”
“But—not many?”
The other’s heart smote him. He had known of cases wherein men had blown their own brains out rather than accept the chances of life on such odds. He could only repeat—
“Well, there have been such instances. Natives very rarely take prisoners at all. The fact that they had not killed Lamont there and then, and it is certain they had not, seems to show some powerful motive for sparing his life for the present. And, while there is life—”
”—There is hope. Yes, I know. And now, what is going to be done to try and save him?”