“No—no,” said Norman; “I will go alone. You are not fit—you must stay here or make for the camp.”
Esmeralda laughed hysterically in his face.
“And leave Varley?” she said. “No; I must be there to give myself up. Oh, don’t talk, don’t argue! He may be riding to his death at this very moment! Come, I know the way;” and in a frenzy of love and terror she struck her tired horse into a gallop.
[CHAPTER XL.]
By the time Trafford had recovered from the emotion which had produced the inaction of stupor, Esmeralda and Norman had ridden out of sight and sound. Trafford got into his saddle and rode after them, but he was inexperienced in Australian locomotion, and before he had ridden very far in blundering haste across the thick and knotted undergrowth, his horse made a false step and threw him.
There was no great harm done, and Trafford picked himself up, shook himself, and mounted again. But by this time the pair he was pursuing had completely vanished and had left no clew behind them. His horse, though uninjured by its fall, was not rendered more cheerful by the mishap, and did not evince any very great interest in the proceedings, but went along rather sullenly for a time. Presently, however, he pricked up his ears and quickened his pace. It was evident that he had been made aware, either by the sense of smell or hearing, of the proximity of some human being or friendly animal.
Trafford, quivering with excitement and a mixture of emotions, let the horse have its head, and the animal trotted quickly down the slope to the valley below. At a sudden bend in the track—if it could be called track—Trafford caught sight of a small stream, the ground near which had been broken and disturbed by the hand of man. He conjectured that this must be the site of an abandoned camp or gold-digging, and the conjecture proved correct, for he came presently upon a ruined hut standing amidst some deserted claims.
He pulled up, or rather the horse stopped of its own accord, and Trafford looked round. He appeared to be alone, amidst the débris of the camp. Here and there were signs of life and activity which had ebbed away; a broken wheelbarrow, a rusty pick, shovels bent and twisted, and planks half hidden by the weeds that had grown round them, lay about in dismal confusion. The whole place, with its air of desertion, was weird and depressing, and Trafford, in his weary and high-strung condition, could scarcely repress a shudder. He wondered why the horse had brought him there, for though he listened intently and looked about him keenly, he could neither see nor hear any sign of the presence of any human being save himself.