able
event. The upheaval of the 4th of June had caused this corner of the
world to relapse into absolute barbarism; and to struggle against the
obstacles which it presented called for qualities which he did not
possess. While the marauders and outcasts felt at home from the
beginning in this new state of things, he, Simon Dubosc, was vainly
seeking for the solution of the problems propounded by the exceptional
circumstances. Where was he to go? What was he to do? Against whom was
he to defend himself? How was he to rescue Isabel?

As completely lost in the new land as he would have been in the
immensity of the sea, he ascended the course of the river, following,
with a distraught gaze, the trace of the two trails marking the sand,
which was wet in places. He recognized the prints left by Dolores'
sandals.

"It's no use going in that direction," she said. "I explored all the
surrounding country this morning."

He went on, however, against the girl's wishes and with no other
object than that of acting and moving. And, so doing, in some fifteen
minutes' time he came upon a spot where the bank was trampled and
muddy, like the banks of a river at a ford.

He stopped suddenly. Horses had passed that way. The mark of their
shoes was plainly visible.

"Oh!" he cried, in bewilderment. "Here is Rolleston's trail! . . .
This is the distinct pattern of his rubber soles! Can I believe my
eyes?"

Almost immediately his quest assumed a more definite form. Fifty yards
higher were the traces, still plainly marked, of a camp; and Simon
declared:

"Of course! . . . Of course! . . . It was here that they landed last
night! Like us, they must have fled before the sudden rise of the
water; and like us, they camped on the further side of a hill. Oh," he
continued, despairingly, "we were less than a mile from them! We could
have surprised them in their sleep! Isn't it frightful to think that
nothing told us of it . . . and that such an opportunity. . . ."

He squatted on his heels and, bending over the ground, examined it for
some minutes. Then he rose, his eyes met those of Dolores and he
said, in a low voice:

"There is one extraordinary thing. . . . How do you explain it?"

The girl's tanned face turned crimson; and he saw that she guessed
what he was about to say:

"You came here this morning, Dolores, while I was asleep. Several
times your footsteps cover those of our enemies, which proves that you
came after they were gon