ding forward on a brisk trot, with the tracks of the fleeing robber still showing plainly on the moonlit veldt.
For several hours he pressed on, his clothes drying rapidly in the crisp air. As yet there was no sign of daylight, though he constantly and anxiously scanned the horizon in every direction. Presently a dull roaring noise became audible in the distance ahead, and the sound grew on his ear until a ridge of ground suddenly revealed the cause -- a small river or creek gliding through a sandy and rocky ravine that traversed the veldt from north to south.
Mark rode down the grassy slope, and, halting at the water's edge, where the trail he was following vanished, he found himself confronted by a new perplexity. The recent heavy fall of rain had swollen the stream, and its muddy and swiftly rushing current looked decidedly dangerous.
"Here's a fix!" he muttered. "The spot is evidently not a regular fording place, but Tom Byrne must have known enough about it to venture to cross. And i