n to go on this
insane quest would mean to send them to their death. There was not a
chance of the missing man being found, except cut into small pieces.
Still, if it had been any other than Ben Halse--and, besides, that white
face, those eyes, gleaming in the starlight!

"You can have ten," he said gruffly, "if you can get as many to
volunteer."

Ten? The whole troop wanted to volunteer on the spot. But the ten were
chosen.

"I'll be somethinged if I follow up this investigation any further,"
said Sergeant Dickinson, who was one of those chosen, to himself, as
they set out. "He may have killed a hundred blanked `Sheenies' for all
I care. I'm not going to hunt down a chap like that. I'd rather chuck
the Force."

It may be said that the search party utterly failed in its object. It
was met by overwhelming numbers, and there was nothing for it but a
precipitate retreat upon the column again.

Then and for all the days to come Verna Halse realised that for her the
light of the world had gone out.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE NAKED IMPI.

The police camp was still and silent in the early dawn, if dawn it could
be called, for a damp, dark mist wrapped the earth in thick folds. It
had been found necessary to go into camp, if only to rest the horses for
the next day's march, which would bring the escort to Esifeni. It was
deemed fairly safe too, in view of the defeat inflicted upon the enemy
the evening before. Besides, they had got into open country now, and
the close quarter surprise in the bush was no longer possible.

Was it not? Here was a worse enemy than thick bush. In the couple of
hours before dawn the mist had stolen down upon them, shrouding the
whole camp with a feeling of dazed helplessness. The vedettes thrown
out on four sides, three men strong apiece, might as well not have been
there now. Mist is a dreadfully formidable auxiliary to a wary,
determined foe, stealing in cautiously behind it.

Of course all had lain down, ready for the smallest call to arms. Most
were asleep; young men, fearless, healthily tired, are not likely to be
kept awake by such a trifle--all in the day's work--as a possible
attack. Not all so slept, however. Verna, pale, haggard, hollow-eyed
with grief, was carefully sponging out her rifle; eager now in her
fierce longing for some kind of vengeance, even though vicarious
vengeance, for another opportunity of using it to some purpose. No
compunction of an