Intent only upon his chase Frank thought of nothing else.
At last, with a shout of triumph, he inclosed the creature in his
net, shook it into the wide pickle bottle, containing a sponge soaked
with chloroform, and then, after tightly fitting in the stopper,
he looked around. He uttered an exclamation of dismay as he did
so. He saw by the bands of light the sun was already setting, and
knew that he must have been for upwards of an hour in chase of the
butterfly. He had not the slightest idea of the direction in which
he had come. He had, he knew, run up hill and down, but whether he
had been traveling in a circle or going straight in one direction,
he had not the least idea. He might be within a hundred yards of
the spot where he had left the Houssa. He might be three or four
miles away.
He at once drew out his revolver, which he always carried strapped
to his belt, and discharged the six chambers, waiting for half a
minute between each shot, and listening intently for an answer to
his signal. None came. The stillness of the wood was unbroken, and
Frank felt that he must have wandered far indeed from his starting
place, and that he was completely lost. His first impulse was to
start off instantly at the top of his speed, but a moment's thought
convinced him that this would be useless.
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