He had thought that it was one of their
wounded - it might have been the boy. Trent, with a sickening sense
of horror, realised the truth. The boy had been taken prisoner.
Even then he preserved his self-control to a marvellous degree.
First of all he gave directions for the day's work - then he called
for volunteers to accompany him to the village. There was no great
enthusiasm. To fight in trenches against a foe who had no cover nor
any firearms was rather a different thing from bearding them in their
own lair. Nevertheless, about twenty men came forward, including a
guide, and Trent was satisfied.
They started directly after breakfast and for five hours fought
their way through dense undergrowth and shrubs with never a sign of
a path, though here and there were footsteps and broken boughs. By
noon some of the party were exhausted and lagged behind, an hour
later a long line of exhausted stragglers were following Trent and
the native guide. Yet to all their petitions for a rest Trent was
adamant. Every minute's delay might lessen the chance of saving
the boy, even now they might have begun their horrible tortures.
The thought inspired him with fresh vigour. He plunged on with
long, reckless strides which soon placed a widening gap between him
and the rest of the party.
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