ess, mysterious, silent, immense, the home of the unknown.

He had reached the outermost edge of civilization, and he was waiting
for the return of an Arab spy, a man he trusted, who had pushed on into
the interior. The country beyond him was a dense tract of bush almost
impenetrable; so far as he knew, waterless.

In the days of the British expedition this had been an almost
insuperable obstacle, but Herne was in no mood to turn back. Behind him
lay desert, wide and barren under the fierce African sun. He had
traversed it with a dogged patience, regardless of hardship, and,
whatever lay ahead of him, he meant to go on. Hidden deep below the
man's calm aspect there throbbed a fierce impatience. It tortured him by
night, depriving him of rest.

Very curiously, the conviction had begun to take root in his soul also
that Bobby Duncannon still lived. In England he had scouted the notion,
but here in the heart of the desert everything seemed possible. He felt
as if a voice were calling to him out of the mystery towards which he
had set his face, a voice that was never silent, continually urging him
on.

Wandering that night on the edge of the bush, with the camp-fires behind
him, he told himself that until he knew the truth he would never turn
back.

He lay down at last, though his restlessness was strong upon him,
compelling his body at least to be passive, while hour after hour
crawled by and the wondrous procession of stars wheeled overhead.

In the early morning there came a stir in the camp, and he rose, to find
that his messenger had returned. The man was waiting for him outside his
tent. The orange and gold of sunrise was turning the desert into a
wonderland of marvellous colour, but Herne's eyes took no note thereof.
He saw only his Arab guide bending before him in humble salutation,
while in his heart he heard a girl's voice, low and piteous, "Bobby is
still alive and wanting me."

"Well, Hassan?" he questioned. "Any news?"

The man's eyes gleamed with a certain triumph.

"There is news, _effendi_. The man the _effendi_ seeks is no longer
chief of the Zambas. They have been swallowed up by the Wandis."

Herne groaned. It was only what he had expected, but the memory of the
boy's face with its eager eyes was upon him. The pity of it! The vast,
irretrievable waste!

"Then he is dead?" he said.

The Arab spread out his hands.

"Allah knows. But the Wandis do not always slay their prisoners,
_effendi_.