The other smiled half-heartedly. This was a piece of hero worship that he, naturally, could not enthuse over.
Peters was as good as his word—and that night he, with over twenty men, well-armed and rationed, started on their quest. The following morning the Fullertons and Clare Vidal, and the men who had been wounded in the fight, started in the other direction, that of Gandela to wit, under a strong escort of Scouts. With them, too, went the storekeeper’s family. Grunberger himself refused to budge, and as it was decided that the Kezane Store would form a very good base for supplies, and something of a garrison was left there for the present, there was no need for him to do so.
“Ach! so. We shall haf Zeederberg’s coaches outspanning here again before de month is out,” he declared, as he bade them a hearty good-bye.
No obstacles met them on the return trek, but to one at least the scenes of the former terror and strife were as holy ground as they passed slowly over them. More than one ghastly trace of that grim running fight met the eye, but to Clare’s mind and to Clare’s gaze, there was only one sight—that of him who had hurried to their rescue, of him whom she had watched with admiration, yes and love, she knew it now—so skilfully and intrepidly handling his gallant little force. The horrors of that day were all merged in this. And in those three short days she had loved, and lost! No, it would not bear dwelling upon.
How the subsequent days were lived through Clare was never quite sure. Over and above the poignancy of bereavement an awful depression would come upon her, and in her dreams she would again see the horrors and bloodshed she had witnessed—ay, and taken part in; and the savage faces of those she herself had slain would rise to confront her, glaring hideously with distorted features and threatening snarl. What was she expiating, she would wonder, that no peace should be hers either by night or by day?
If she suffered, it was in silence. Hers was far the stronger mind of the two, and even to her sister she shrank from laying it entirely open. Yet her reticence was seen through, and everybody was considerate and sympathetic. Every scrap of news relating to what was going on in the field was promptly conveyed to her, all but what she thirsted to hear, and that was still lacking. Day followed upon day, and the whereabouts of Peters and his following remained shrouded in a mystery as impenetrable as that of him whom they sought.
Among those who strove to cheer her up was Driffield the Native Commissioner, and he in a measure succeeded.
“Don’t give up, yet, Miss Vidal,” he said, “no, not by any means. I wish I could bring you round to my belief, and that is that Lamont will turn up again.”
“I wish you could,” she answered. “But—time goes on and we hear—nothing.”
“I’m not sure that’s against it,” returned Driffield. “Lamont was a peculiar chap—in fact, a very peculiar sort of chap. He was friendly with Zwabeka’s people and with Zwabeka himself. Well, then, it’s just possible some of them may be hiding him away until it’s safe to turn him loose.”