We redoubled our pace.

We knew we were outwitted.
When we reached the open, we saw at once by the uncertain light what had happened.

The fugitive was riding away on my own little sorrel,--riding for dear life; not back the way we came from Salisbury, but sideways across the veldt towards Chimoio and the Portuguese seaports.

The other two horses, riderless and terrified, were scampering with loose heels over the dark plain.

Doolittle was not to be seen; he lay, a black lump, among the black bushes about him.
We looked around for him, and found him.