“Let us try a smoke,” said Basil, putting away his rifle. “Gather some wood, Luce, while I kindle the leaves.”
Basil picked up some pieces of the burning wad; and having taken it out to the open ground, raked together a pile of dry leaves and grass, and ignited it. Meanwhile Lucien collected an armful of sticks, and placed them upon the pile. Others were then thrown on top, with green leaves and boughs broken from the trees, and, over all, several armfuls of Spanish moss which hung plentifully from the oaks. A thick blue smoke soon ascended high into the heavens; and the brothers stood with searching eyes that scrutinised the prairie in all directions.
“He must be far off if he cannot see that,” remarked Lucien. “It should be visible for ten miles around, I should think!”
“At least that much,” answered Basil; “but he would not be long in getting ten miles away. The chase might have carried him a good part; and, finding himself lost, he would soon gallop the rest.”
“Unless,” suggested Lucien, “he may have ridden about, as you did, upon his own trail.”
“No, he would not be likely. Poor little François would not think of it; he has not enough craft for that; and, indeed, I almost hope that he has not done so.”
“Why do you hope so?” inquired Lucien.
“Because we will stand a better chance of making out his trail if he has gone straight forward.”
“True, true,” rejoined Lucien, and both again were silent, and stood watching the prairie openings with anxious eyes.
They remained for a considerable time, but at length turned to each other with countenances that exhibited a disappointed and sad expression.