The
hawks and the crows fled before it, swooping down on the vermin that were
forced to leave the shelter of log and bush. The great silence that had
reigned for so long was broken by the roar, and crash, and crackle of a
sea of flames; and beneath this fiery blast every vestige of the lost
explorers vanished for ever.
When, on the blackened ground, fell heavy rain once more, the spinifex
sprang up, fresh and green to look at, only in spots here and there,
where a human body had fertilised the soil, it was greener than
elsewhere.
So Leichhardt drops out of Australian history, and with every succeeding
year the chances of finding any trace grow more remote.
Expeditions have been started in search of him, but without result, and
the tale of their efforts will be told in their proper order.
As if the year 1848, when Europe seemed convulsed with some strange
tempest of riot and turmoil, should not be unmarked in Australia, two of
the most disastrous expeditions in the annals of exploration started
during its course. One, Leichhardt's, as we have just seen, vanished, and
all must have perished.
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