These signs were unmistakable: he had discovered something. His master urged him forward. He obeyed to the extent of a couple of steps, and then refused to go further. Not only that, but he shied to the left, and trembled more than before.
Brinton soothed him, and then leaned over the saddle and looked into the gloom; and, as he did so, he almost fell from his seat, because of the shock and faintness from what he saw.
The first glance told him that something was stretched on the frozen earth but a short distance away. Further scrutiny revealed that it was a man, lying motionless at full length.
"It is father!" was the thought of the son, who was out of the saddle in a twinkling, and running forward.
It was not the body of Hugh Kingsland, but of a stranger. He had been a powerful man, who had made a brave fight, and had only yielded to superior numbers.
Brinton did not attempt any examination in the darkness, for there was no need to do so. He uttered a prayer for the unfortunate one, and for those whom he must have left behind him, and added—
"Thank Heaven, it is not father! But who can say how soon he, too, shall not be thus cut down with mother and little Edith?"
He remembered that although this tragedy had taken place so near him, and within the last hour or two, he had heard no reports of guns nor any sounds of conflict. That, however, was accounted for by the direction of the wind, as already explained.
Really nothing seemed left for him to do. He had done everything in his power to find his friends and failed. As long as night continued the faculty of vision was useless to him.
"Well, Jack," he said despairingly, "do as you choose; I am helpless."