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.  The old and the useless ones they burn, but the strong ones they save alive.  It may be that he lives.”

“As a slave!” Herne said.

“It is possible, effendi.”  The Arab considered a moment.  Then, “The road to the country of the Wandis is no journey for effendis,” he said.  “The path is hard to find, and there is no water.  Also, the bush is thick, and there are many savages.  But beyond all are the mountains where the Wandis dwell.  It is possible that the chief of the Zambas has been carried to their City of Stones.  It is a wonderful place, effendi.  But the way thither, especially now, even for an Arab——­”

“I am going myself,” Herne said.

“The effendi will die!”

Herne shrugged his shoulders.

“Be it so!  I am going!”

“But not alone, effendi.”  A speculative gleam shone in the Arab’s wary eyes.  He was the only available guide, and he knew it.  The Englishman was mad, of course, but he was willing to humour him—­for a consideration.

Herne saw the gleam, and his grim face relaxed.

“Name your price, Hassan!” he said.  “If it doesn’t suit me—­I go alone.”