Night has fallen, but still Eleanor waits on the verandah, with widely-opened eyes, staring along the zigzag path by which Carol rode away. She remembers he turned back to look at her three times, kissing his hand twice. What can have detained him? Surely he knows how nervous she is!
Eleanor rises and walks up and down distractedly, her face ashen pale, her figure trembling.
He has had an accident—she is certain of it. The road, he said was lonely and rough; it winds near a precipice, the loose stones and boulders roll down the slope of the hill and fall into the abyss.
Perhaps his horse has fallen a victim to disease upon the way, or he has been attacked by a savage troop and speared to death.
These thoughts are too horrible to be borne with equanimity; the stillness of night appals her, she can stand it no longer.
Summoning Quamina, she orders her horse to be saddled immediately, with the idea of flying to his aid. She loves him too well to fear the night, the dangers of that lone road, or her indifferent horsemanship! She would die sooner than sit at home when he might need assistance.
Her horse is the handsomest animal that Carol could buy. She has named him "Braye du Valle."
The black men stare wondrously as she mounts and rides out bravely into the night.
"Braye du Valle," she whispers, "we must find him if it costs our lives!"
In the meanwhile Quinton has bidden his friends good-bye, having stayed far later than he intended, talking over old times, and airing his favourite adventures.