“Quashy,” said Lawrence, in a deep, solemn tone, “we are indeed lost.”
“It ’pears to me you’s right, massa.”
“And yet we must be on the right track,” continued Lawrence, as if communing with himself, “unless, indeed, the Indians may have changed their direction and turned off to the south.”
“Or de nort’,” suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone.
“Come, there’s nothing for it but to push on,” cried Lawrence, galloping away.
“Das so. Nuffin else,” said Quashy, following.
And so they continued on for another hour or more in grim silence, after which they rode, as it were, in grim despair—at least Lawrence did so, for he felt bitterly that he was now separated, perhaps for ever, from Manuela, and that he could render no further aid in rescuing the captives from the savages. As for the negro, despair was not compatible with his free and easy, not to say reckless, happy-go-lucky temperament. He felt deeply indeed for his young master, and sympathised profoundly; but for himself he cared little, and thought of nothing beyond the interests of the passing hour. Possibly if both horses had broken their legs and Lawrence had broken his neck, Quashy might have given way to despair, but it is probable that nothing less severe could have overcome his buoyant spirit.
At last the sun began to descend behind the Andes, which were by that time turned into a misty range of tender blue in the far, far distance. The steeds also showed signs of declining power, for, in his anxiety to overtake the troops, Lawrence had pressed them rather harder than he would otherwise have done.
Opportunely at that time they came in sight of a small clump of bushes, like a low islet in the sea of grass.
“We will camp here,” said Lawrence, brusquely, as he pulled up and dismounted. “The game is up. We are fairly lost, that’s quite clear, and it is equally clear that we and our horses must rest.”