at mean you?" asked Lucien, half believing that Francois 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 Francois, poor little Francois! 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 Francois! poor brother Francois! 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 Francois.
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.

"What is to be done?" said Lucien.

Basil now became himself again. The hope of saving Francois restored
him to his wonted energy and courage.

"Is it better we should remain here?" asked Lucien, who knew that his
brother's strong judgment would decide upon the best plan.

"No," replied the latter; "it is of no use. _I_ could not have found my
way back, but for the tracks of my horse. Francois will not think of
that; and even if he did, _his_ horse is a _mustang_, and the prairie is
covered with mustang tracks, running in every direction. No, no, he
will never come back here, except by chance; and there are a thousand
chances to one against it. No, we must go in search of him; we must go
upon his trail; and that I fear will be impossible among so many others.
Before we leave this place," co