Dick Sand felt the most painful anxiety.  He could understand that Mrs. Weldon, retained a prisoner, would be concealed from him.  But Harris and Negoro, particularly the latter, should hasten to see him, now in their power, if only to enjoy their triumph—­to insult him, torture him, perhaps avenge themselves.  From the fact that they were not there, must he conclude that they had taken another direction, and that Mrs. Weldon was to be conducted to some other point of Central Africa?  Should the presence of the American and the Portuguese be the signal for his punishment, Dick Sand impatiently desired it.  Harris and Negoro at Kazounde, was for him the certainty that Mrs. Weldon and her child were also there.

Dick Sand then told himself that, since the night when Dingo had brought him Hercules’s note, the dog had not been seen.  The young man had prepared an answer at great risks.  In it he told Hercules to think only of Mrs. Weldon, not to lose sight of her, and to keep her informed as well as possible of what happened; but he had not been able to send it to its destination.  If Dingo had been able to penetrate the ranks of the caravan once, why did not Hercules let him try it a second time?  Had the faithful animal perished in some fruitless attempt?  Perhaps Hercules was following Mrs. Weldon, as Dick Sand would have done in his place.  Followed by Dingo, he might have plunged into the depths of the woody plateau of Africa, in the hope of reaching one of the interior establishments.

What could Dick Sand imagine if, in fact, neither Mrs. Weldon nor her enemies were there?  He had been so sure, perhaps foolishly, of finding them at Kazounde, that not to see them there at once gave him a terrible shock.  He felt a sensation of despair that he could not subdue.  His life, if it were no longer useful to those whom he loved, was good for nothing, and he had only to die.  But, in thinking in that manner, Dick Sand mistook his own character.  Under the pressure of these trials, the child became a man, and with him discouragement could only be an accidental tribute paid to human nature.

A loud concert of trumpet-calls and cries suddenly commenced.  Dick Sand, who had just sunk down in the dust of the “tchitoka,” stood up.  Every new incident might put him on the track of those whom he sought.

In despair a moment before, he now no longer despaired.

“Alvez!  Alvez!” This name was repeated by a crowd of natives and soldiers who now invaded the grand square.  The man on whom the fate of so many unfortunate people depended was about to appear.  It was possible that his agents, Harris and Negoro, were with him.  Dick Sand stood upright, his eyes open, his nostrils dilated.  The two traitors would find this lad of fifteen years before them, upright, firm, looking them in the face.  It would not be the captain of the “Pilgrim” who would tremble before the old ship’s cook.

A hammock, a kind of “kitanda” covered by an old patched curtain, discolored, fringed with rags, appeared at the end of the principal street.  An old negro descended.  It was the trader, Jose-Antonio Alvez.  Several attendants accompanied him, making strong demonstrations.