“No, John! it is out of the question. You have not even a horse for the journey, which is full two hundred miles!”
This was true, for Mulrady’s horse, the only one that remained, had not returned. Had he fallen during the attack on his rider, or was he straying in the bush, or had the convicts carried him off?
“Come what will,” replied Glenarvan, “we will not separate again. Let us wait a week, or a fortnight, till the Snowy falls to its normal level. We can then reach Twofold Bay by short stages, and from there we can send on to the DUNCAN, by a safer channel, the order to meet us.”
“That seems the only plan,” said Paganel.
“Therefore, my friends,” rejoined Glenarvan, “no more parting. It is too great a risk for one man to venture alone into a robber-haunted waste. And now, may God save our poor sailor, and protect the rest of us!”
Glenarvan was right in both points; first in prohibiting all isolated attempts, and second, in deciding to wait till the passage of the Snowy River was practicable. He was scarcely thirty miles from Delegete, the first frontier village of New South Wales, where he would easily find the means of transport to Twofold Bay, and from there he could telegraph to Melbourne his orders about the DUNCAN.
These measures were wise, but how late! If Glenarvan had not sent Mulrady to Lucknow what misfortunes would have been averted, not to speak of the assassination of the sailor!
When he reached the camp he found his companions in better spirits. They seemed more hopeful than before. “He is better! he is better!” cried Robert, running out to meet Lord Glenarvan.
“Mulrady?—”
“Yes, Edward,” answered Lady Helena. “A reaction has set in. The Major is more confident. Our sailor will live.”