The latter could hardly speak, so strong were his emotions.
“O brother!” he faltered out at length, “has François not returned?”
“No,” answered Lucien, “I was thinking he was with you, and you would come back together. I have been wondering what could have detained you so long.”
“O God, he is lost!” cried Basil, breaking into an agony of grief. “Lucien! Lucien! our brother is lost!”
“Lost! what mean you?” asked Lucien, half believing that François had been attacked by Indians, or some wild animal, and that that was what Basil meant. “Has anything happened to him? Speak, Basil!”
“No, no!” replied Basil, still speaking wildly, “lost on the prairie! O brother, you know not what it is—it is a fearful thing. I have been lost,—I have got back; but François, poor little François! there is no hope for him! he is lost—lost!”
“But have you not seen him since we all three parted?” inquired Lucien in dismay.
“No, not since we parted. I was myself lost, and have been all this time finding my way. I succeeded by following back my own trail, else we might never have met again. O François! poor brother François! what will become of him?”
Lucien now shared the apprehensions as well as the agony of his brother. Up to this time he had been under the impression that they had got together, and something had detained them—perhaps the breaking of a stirrup-leather or a girth, he knew not what—and he was just beginning to grow uneasy when Basil made his appearance. He knew not what it was to be lost; but Basil’s wild explanations enabled him to conceive what it might be; and he could well appreciate the situation of François. It was no time, however, to indulge in paroxysms of grief. He saw that Basil was half unmanned; the more so because the latter looked upon himself as the cause of the misfortune. It was Basil who had counselled the running of the turkeys and led on to the chase.
Instead of giving way to despair, however, both felt that they must take some steps for the recovery of their lost brother.