deepened as evening approached.

Now their plight was very wretched. Lost, starved, soaked to the skin,
with tired horses one of which was lame, they wandered about on the
lonely veld. Only one stroke of fortune came to them. As the sun set,
for a few moments its rays pierced the mist, telling them in what
direction they should go. Turning their horses, they headed for it,
and so rode on until the darkness fell. Then they halted a while,
but feeling that if they stood still in that horrible cold they would
certainly perish before morning, once more pushed on again. By now Mr.
Clifford's horse was almost too lame to ride, so he led it, walking
at his daughter's side, and reproaching himself bitterly for his
foolishness in having brought her into this trouble.

"It doesn't matter, Father," she answered wearily, for she was very
tired. "Nothing matters; one may as well die upon the veld as in the sea
or anywhere else."

On they plodded, they knew not whither. Benita fell asleep upon her
saddle, and was awakened once by a hyena howling quite close to them,
and once by her horse falling to its knees.

"What is the time?" she said at last.

Her father struck a match and looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock;
they had been fifteen hours away from the waggon and without food. At
intervals Mr. Clifford, who had remounted, fired his rifle. Now there
was but one cartridge left, and having caught sight of his daughter's
exhausted face by the light of the match, he fired this also, though in
that desperate wilderness there was little hope of its bringing succour.