Dickenson frowned.
“You mean, sir, that you do not believe he is still alive.”
“I don’t know what to say, Dickenson,” said the colonel, beginning to walk up and down the hut. “You have heard this ugly report?”
“Yes, sir; and I don’t believe it.”
“I cannot believe it,” said the colonel; “but Captain Roby keeps on repeating it to the doctor and the major; while that man who was wounded, too, endorses all his captain says. It sounds monstrous.”
“Don’t believe it, sir,” cried Dickenson excitedly.
“I have told you that I cannot believe it,” said the colonel; “but Mr Lennox is missing, and it looks horribly corroborative of Roby’s tale. There, go and find him—if you can. We can’t add that to our other misfortunes; it would be a disgrace to us all.”
“You mean, sir,” said Dickenson coldly, “if Drew Lennox had—has—well, I suppose I must say it—run away?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, sir, I don’t feel in the least afraid. He is either a prisoner, lying badly wounded somewhere about the kopje, or—dead.”