'They're coming,' said Harry in a low voice.
Christina neither stirred nor spoke, and Monk at the head of four horsemen swept up to the house.
'To the front, Donovan and Keel,' cried Monk. 'He may make for cover in those quarries if he bolts.
Casey, stay here. Managan, follow me.'
He dropped from his horse and led the animal to Harry, to whom he threw the rein. Christina did not attempt to bar his passage, and he and Managan passed into the house. Chris stood by the door jamb, facing Harry, erect and pale; Harry leant against the big galvanised-iron tank, absently fondling the head of the trooper's horse. Suddenly, a moment after the troopers had entered the house, he heard right at his elbow the sound of something striking upon the iron of the tank inside. He started forward with a low cry, and his eyes flew to the face of the girl. She, too, had heard the sound, and their eyes met. The terror in hers told him that he had discovered the truth.
'He's there,' he whispered.
Christina staggered back, supporting herself against the wall, and fell into a seat under the window, the light from which streamed upon her fair hair and illumined her as she sat, crushed by her misery into an attitude of profound despair, her head bowed upon her breast, her clasped hands thrust out rigidly be yond her knees.
Harry stood silent and motionless, his eyes fixed upon the grief-stricken figure of the girl, his brain in a tumult. His heart was driving him to forget everything but that he loved her, to take her in his arms and swear to shield her and cherish her, come what might. At this moment Sergeant Monk came from the house.
'Not a sign of him,' he said. 'Did you see any thing of him, Hardy?
'Not a glimpse,' answered Harry mechanically.