"No, pater, I suppose not," acknowledged Tom; "but it was a cruel end. I shall never forget the little fellow, and it will be a long while before I shall get his death-scream out of my memory." *Chapter XIII.* *GUY IS MISSING.* More than a month had elapsed since the beginning of the trek. They were now, as Poeskop had informed them, within little more than a week’s journey from the kloof of gold of which they were in search. It was full a week since they had left the Berg Damara village behind, and they had progressed well and steadily during the interval. One morning Mr. Blakeney and Tom had ridden out together in search of game. Guy was sitting on the wagon, for a change taking a rest, going through some of his specimens, and packing away odds and ends. They were trekking across a wide, open grass plain, whereon various herds of game, for the most part hartebeest, blue wildebeest, and Burchell’s zebra, were to be seen grazing in the distance. At half-past twelve the oxen were outspanned, and a halt was made. Guy, having finished his work and eaten some lunch, was now, with the aid of the Ross stalking-glass, ranging the wide grass flats, watching the various troops of game, and wondering what kind of luck his uncle and cousin were having. It had been a most beautiful morning. The hot, rather suffocating winds, which had been blowing persistently from the north for the last few days, had vanished. A most cool and refreshing breeze now came up gently from the south, borne from the cool regions of the far Antarctic; and there was a feeling of vigour in the sparkling atmosphere which, albeit it was now just past high noon, made Guy’s restless English blood eager for action. As he looked, he suddenly spied through the clear telescope a single ostrich, stalking across the veldt. It was a long way off--five miles certainly--but he would go after it. Telling Seleti to saddle up his pony, Guy’s preparations were soon made. After their experiences in the thirst-land, he was not going to take any more unnecessary risks, and he had fastened to his saddle his water-bottle, coat, and a hunting case containing a little food. Thus equipped, he picked up his sporting Martini rifle--he had lent Tom his Mannlicher--and, swinging himself lightly into the saddle, rode off at a brisk canter, humming, in the lightness of his heart, a cheerful song. Poeskop gazed admiringly after him as he rode away. "There goes a proper young baas!" he said to Jan Kokerboom, as they sat at their meal. "’Tis a fine thing to be an Englishman." Jan admitted that it was, and Guy’s figure gradually receded into the distance.