“Mat,” said Mr Weston huskily, his face betraying his agitation and alarm, “the poor lads must have come to grief—possibly they have been attacked, and—and murdered by natives!”
“I trust not, my dear Maurice; nay, I am sure that such is not the case,” answered the Major.
“In the first place, the natives would have been nearly certain to secure the horses; and in the second place—”
“This wound in the grey’s shoulder was inflicted by a wild baste, not a human cratur,” interrupted Keown, who had caught George’s horse. “Look ye, Misther Weston, there are the marks of the brute’s claws as plain as a pike-staff.”
“There’s no mistake about it,” said Major Flinders, stooping down and examining the grey’s shoulder; “this is a tiger’s work. Maurice,” he added, “you and Patrick Keown must remain here, whilst I take William and go in search of the poor boys.”
“I would rather go with you, Mat,” replied the other.
“No, old friend, do you remain here, the Hottentot is an admirable ‘tracker,’ and I could not do without him. Patrick, saddle up at once.”
A couple of horses were quickly saddled, and Major Flinders and Black William mounted.
“Is there any hope, Mat?” whispered Mr Weston, as he wrung his friend’s hand at parting.
“We must hope for the best, Maurice,” was the doubtful reply.