Self-preservation is the first law of life, and no sooner did Don feel that iron grip compressing his throat, and dragging him down into the depths of the creep, than he struck out to such good purpose that the hold of his unknown assailant quickly relaxed. As he shot up to the surface he found himself confronted by the dripping head and shoulders of a native. A brief cessation of hostilities followed; each glared at the other defiantly, the native's tense breathing and watchful eye indicating that, though baffled for the moment by his opponents prompt defensive measures, he was in no two minds about renewing the struggle.
Suddenly, by a lightning-like movement of the hand, he dashed a blinding jet of spray into Don's eyes, instantly followed up the advantage thus treacherously gained, grappled with him, and pinioned his arms tightly at his sides. Then, to his horror, Don felt his head thrust violently back, felt the fellow's hot, quick breath on his neck, and his teeth gnashing savagely at his throat.
Luckily for himself Don was no mean athlete, and knew how to use his fists to advantage when occasion demanded. Wrenching his arms free, he seized the native by the throat, and in spite of his eel-like slipperiness and desperate struggles, by an almost superhuman effort forced him slowly backwards until he had him at effective striking distance, when, suddenly loosing his hold, he let him have a tremendous “one-two” straight from the shoulder, that stretched the native senseless and bleeding on the water.
“You would have it!” he panted, surveying the native's sinewy proportions with grim satisfaction. “Next time you won't wait to be knocked out, I reckon. But 'twon't do to let you drown, though you richly deserve it; so come along, you black cub!”
Seizing the black by the convenient tuft of hair at the back of his bullet-head, he towed him to the strip of beach, and there hauled him out upon the sand, directly into a patch of moonlight, as it happened, that came slanting down through a rift in the canopy of palm-leaves overhead. Something in the appearance of the upturned features caused him to drop on his knees at the natives side.
“Hullo!” he cried, peering into the fellow's face, “Jack's lascar, as I'm alive! By Jove, you are a prize! We'll keep you with us longer than we did last time, my friend. Ha, ha! won't the captain chuckle, though!”
With his belt he proceeded to strap the lascar's hands securely behind his back; but when it came to fastening his legs, a difficulty cropped up. That is to say, the strap could not be used for both, and he had no substitute. Fortunately the lascar wore about his loins the regulation length of strong country cotton—his only covering—and this Don was in the act of removing when a knife fell out of its folds.
“Lucky thing I didn't run against you in the water,” he soliloquised, picking the weapon up. “Why, it's the very knife the lascar shot at Jack from the schooner's deck; the one he let the fellow have back for sending the boathook through the cutter's side; and that we afterwards found lying in the ballam here. And yet Jack certainly had it on him when those niggers carried him off. So, old chap,” apostrophising the insensible owner of the much-bandied knife, “so you had a hand in kidnapping him too, had you? All the more reason for caring for you now that we've got you.”
Following up this idea, he knotted the cloth tightly about the lascar's legs, dragged him well up the beach, and went in search of the canoe. This, fortunately, had not been molested in their absence; in a few minutes he had it in the water. Then, seizing the paddle, he propelled the light skiff swiftly in the direction of the rock platform, where he found the old sailor stumping his beat in a terrible state of uneasiness over his prolonged absence.
“Spike my guns, lad!” cried he, bearing down upon the young man with outstretched hand and a smile as broad as the cutter's mainsail, “they warmints's been an' done for Master Don this hitch, I says to myself when the half-hour fails to bring ye. An' what manner o' mishap's kept ye broached-to all this while? I axes.”
“Fact is, captain, I was attacked by the enemy. Came within an ace of being captured, too. But, as good luck would have it, I managed to get in a thundering broadside, boarded the enemy—there was only one, luckily—spiked his guns, and towed him ashore, where he's waiting to pay his respects to you now. But get in and see for yourself what a valuable prize I've taken.”
The captain got in with all despatch, and, as soon as the canoe touched the opposite beach, got out again without delay, so eager was he to inspect, the captive. As it was now daylight, he recognised the fellow the moment he set eyes on him. His delight knew no bounds. Bound and round the luckless lascar he stumped, chuckling as he always did when he was pleased, and every now and then prodding him in the ribs with his wooden leg, as if to reassure himself that he laboured under no delusion.
“Sharks an' sea-sarpents, lad!” he roared, when quite satisfied as to the lascar's identity, “we'll keep the warmint fast in the bilboes a while, says you; for, d'ye mind me, he's old Salambo's right-hand man, is this lubber, as comes an' goes at his beck an' call, an' executes the orders as he gives. So in the bilboes he remains; why not? I axes.”
“My idea precisely, captain. He can't be up to any of his little games so long as he has a good stout strap to hug him; and, what's more, he'll have a capital chance to recover from that nasty slash Jack gave him the other night. By the way, I've often wondered, do you know, how he managed to pull through that affair so easily. Suppose we turn him over and have a look at his shoulder?”
No sooner said than done, notwithstanding the captive's snarling protests; but, to their great amazement, his shoulder showed neither wound nor scar.
“Well, this beats me!” exclaimed Don incredulously.
“An' is this the wery identical swab, an' no mistake? I axes,” demanded the captain.
“Mistake? None whatever, unless Jack was mistaken in the fellow the other day, which isn't at all likely. Besides, I've seen him twice before myself; once in the temple, and again on the sands here. I'd know that hang-dog look of his among a thousand. Then there's Spottie; he saw him as well. Stop! let's see what Spottie makes of this.”
Spottie was summoned, and, without being informed of the point in dispute, unhesitatingly identified the captive as the lascar.
“Then,” said Don, “Jack must have supposed he stabbed the fellow when he didn't; that's the most I can make of it.”
“Belay there!” objected the captain. “What about the blood in the canoe and on the knife when arterwards found? I axes.”
“There you have me. This fellow's the lascar fast enough; but how he's the lascar and yet doesn't show the wound Jack gave him, I know no more than the man in the moon. Ugh! what a greasy beast he is! I'd better take the strap up another hole to make sure of him.”
So, for a time, the puzzling question of the lascar's identity dropped.
No food being procurable here, they decided to push oh to the Haunted Pagodas ere the sun became too hot, and there endeavour to clear a passage to the immured stores. Accordingly, when the canoe had been dragged back to its former place of concealment, they set out, Don taking charge of the lascar, who, clad in Spottie's upper-cloth, and having his legs only at liberty, led as quietly as a lamb.
Two-thirds of the way up they came upon that portion of the hill which had been ravaged by the fire. For the most part this had now burnt itself out, leaving the summit of the elevation one vast bed of ghastly gray ashes, with here and there a smouldering stump or cluster of bamboo stems still smoking.
At the Haunted Pagodas two surprises awaited them. The first of these was no other than Puggles himself, alive and lachrymose. On the floor of the otherwise empty “fo'csle” he sat, blubbering dolefully. Comical indeed was the spectacle he presented, with his woebegone face thickly begrimed with a mixture of ashes and tears—a sort of fortuitous whitewash, relieved in the funniest fashion by the black skin showing in patches through its lighter veneer, and by the double line of vivid red, stretching half-way from ear to ear, that marked the generous expanse of his mouth.
The explanation of his sudden disappearance proved simple enough. He had stumbled in the very act of following his master past the swiftly-advancing fire, and crawling back on hands and knees to a place of safety, had there passed the night alone in the jungle. On reaching the encampment and finding it deserted, he jumped to the conclusion that the fire had, as he put it, “done eat sahibs up,” stores and all. Hence his tearful condition on their return.
The second surprise was one of an equally pleasing nature, since it concerned the stores. The mass of debris which blocked the tunnel's mouth had subsided to such an extent in cooling as to admit of their reaching the imprisoned stores with but little difficulty.
“All the same, captain,” remarked Don, when presently they began a vigorous attack on the provisions, “I'm jolly glad our fear of being buried alive drove us to the far end of the hole. We've got the key to the Elephant Rock, and, what's more, we've got a grip on old Salambo's right hand,” nodding towards the lascar, who was again bound hand and foot, “that's safe to stand us in good stead when it comes to the final tussle for Jack and the pearls.”
“Right ye are, lad,” said the captain in tones as hearty as his appetite; “an', blow me!—as the fog-horn says to the donkey-ingin—arter we snatches a wink o' sleep, d'ye mind me, we'll lay our heads together a bit an' detarmine on the best course to be steered.”
On the stone floor of the “fo'csle” the blacks were already sleeping the sleep of repletion; and, their meal finished, Don and the captain lost no time in following their example—for thirty-six hours of almost unremitting exertion and danger had told heavily upon their powers of endurance. Dead tired as they were, they gave little heed to the lascar beyond assuring themselves by a hasty glance that his bonds were secure. To all appearance he was wrapped in profound slumber.
The sun was at the zenith when they stretched themselves upon the flags of the “fo'csle”; slowly it burnt its way downward to the western horizon, and still they slept. Don was the first to stir. He raised himself upon his elbow with a yawn, rubbed his eyes, gazed about him in momentary bewilderment. Twilight had already crept out of the ravine and invaded the ghostly, fire-scathed ruins. This was the first-thing he noticed. Then the recollection of the events of the past day and night rushed upon him, and he turned abruptly, with a sudden vague sense of dread, to the spot where the lascar lay.
Lay? No; that place was empty!
He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. Had the fellow somehow managed to shift his position, and roll out of sight behind one of the numerous blocks of stone that lay about? Or had he——
With a cry of alarm he threw himself upon an object that lay where the lascar had lain. It was the leathern belt with which he had bound the fellow's arms. The tongue of the buckle was broken. He recollected now, and almost cursed his folly for not recollecting before, that the buckle had long been weak. Too late! The lascar had escaped!
Dashing the traitorous belt upon the stones, he hurried to where the old sailor lay asleep, with Bosin curled up by his side, and shook him roughly by the shoulder. He was in no gentle mood just then.
“Captain! Captain! Wake up! The lascars off!”
No response. No movement. Only the monkey awoke suddenly and fell to whimpering.
The captain lay at full length upon his back, his bronzed hands clasped upon his broad chest, his blue sailor's cap drawn well over his eyes. Something in the pose of the figure at his feet, in its stillness—something, too, in the plaintive half-human wail the monkey uttered at the moment—struck a sudden chill to Don's heart. He dropped upon his knees, lifted the cap, peered into the upturned face. It was distorted, purple. He started back with a fearful cry:
“Not dead! Oh, my God, not dead!”
That was a fearful moment for Don. The quest of the golden pearl, entered upon with all the love of adventure and sanguine hope natural to young hearts, began to wear a serious aspect indeed. Even had Jack been there to share the heartbreak of it, this sudden, numbing blow would still have been terribly hard to bear. But Jack was gone—whither, Heaven alone knew—and the captain was dead.
Ay, the “Providence that sits up aloft” had at last looked out a snug berth for the old sailor, and shipped him for the Eternal Voyage. Kneeling by his side in the solemn twilight, with aching heart Don recalled all his quaint ways and quainter sayings, his large-hearted generosity, his rollicking good-nature, his rough but ever-ready sympathy—and sealed the kindly eyes with such tears as are wrung from us but once or twice in a lifetime, and recalled with sadness often, with shame never.
But for him the captain would never have undertaken this disastrous venture. This was the bitterest, the sorest thought of all.
At last Bosin's low wailing broke in upon his sad reverie. Well-nigh human did the monkey seem, as with tender, lingering touch he caressed his master's face, and sought to rouse him from this strange sleep of which he felt but could not understand the awful meaning. Then, failing to win from the dumb lips the response he craved, he turned his eyes upon his master's friend with a look of pathetic appeal fairly heartbreaking in its mute intensity.
No sooner did he succeed in attracting Don's attention, however, than his manner underwent a complete change. The plaintive wail became a hiss, the puny, lithe hands tore frantically at something that showed like a thin, dark streak about the dead man's neck. What with the waning light and the shock of finding the captain dead, Don had not noticed this streak before. He looked at it closely now, and as he looked a horrified intelligence leapt into his face. The dark streak was a cord: the captain had been strangled!
Oh, the horror of that discovery! Hitherto he had suspected no foul play, no connection of any kind, indeed, between the captain's death and the lascar's escape; for had he not taken the precaution to disarm the native? But now he remembered seeing that cord about the fellow's middle. He had thought it harmless. Harmless! Ah, how different was the mute witness borne by the old sailor's lifeless form! In the lascar's hands the cord had proved an instrument of death as swift and sure as any knife.
But why had the captain been singled out as the victim? Was the lascar merely bent on wreaking vengeance on those who had injured him? Or was he a tool in other and invisible hands?
Feverishly he asked himself these questions as he removed the fatal cord, and composed the distorted features into a semblance of what they had been in life; asked, but could not answer them. Only, back of the whole terrible business, he seemed to see the cunning, unscrupulous shark-charmer, bent on retaining the pearls at any cost, fanning the lascar's hatred into fiercer flame, guiding his ready hand in its work of death.
Could he, alone and all but unaided, cope with the cunning of this enemy who, while himself unseen, made his devilish power felt at every turn? The responsibility thrown upon his shoulders by the captain's murder involved other and weightier issues than the mere recovery of a few thousand pounds' worth of stolen pearls. Jack must be rescued, if indeed he was still alive; while, if he too was dead, his and the captain's murderers must be brought to justice. This was the task before him; no light one for a youth of eighteen, with only a brace of timid native servants at his back. Yet he addressed himself to it with all the passionate determination born of his love for the chum and his grief for the friend who had stood by him “through thick and thin.” There was no hesitation, no wavering. “Do or die!” It was come to that now.
The captain's burial must be his first consideration; for Don had lived long enough in the East to know how remorseless is the climate in its treatment of the dead. Morning at the latest must snatch the old sailor's familiar form for ever from his sight.
A tarpaulin lay in the “fo'csle,” and with this he determined to hide the lascar's dread handiwork from view before waking the blacks, who still slept. While he was disposing this appropriate pall above the corpse, the captain's jacket fell open, and in an inside pocket he caught sight of a small volume.
“Perhaps he has papers about him that ought to be preserved,” thought Don. “I'll have a look.”
Drawing the volume from its resting-place with reverent touch, he found it to be a copy of the Book of Common Prayer, sadly worn and battered, like its owner, by long service. Here and there a leaf was turned down, or a passage marked by the dent of a heavy thumb-nail—the sailor's pencil. But what arrested his attention were these words written on the yellow fly-leaf in a bold, irregular hand, and in ink so faded as to make it evident that many years had elapsed since they were penned:
“To all and sundry as sights these lines, when-somedever it may please the Good Skipper to tow this 'ere old hulk safe into port, widelicit. If so be as I'm spared to go aloft when on the high-seas, wery good! the loan of a hammock and a bit o' ballast is all I axes. But if so be as I'm ewentually stranded on shore, why then, d'ye mind me, who-somedever ye be as sights these 'ere lines, I ain't to be battened down like a lubberly landsman, d'ye see, but warped off-shore an' shipped for the Eternal V'yage as a true seaman had ought to be. And may God have mercy on my soul.—Amen. The last Log and Testament of me,
“(Signed) John Mango, A.B.”
The faded characters grew blurred and misty before Don's eyes as he scanned them. Closing the book, he grasped the captain's cold hand impulsively, and in tones choked with emotion, cried:
“You shall have your wish, dear old friend! We'll warp you off-shore and ship you for the Eternal Voyage in a way befitting the true seaman that you are.”
And the mute lips seemed to smile back their approval, as though they would say:
“Ay, ay, wrhy not, I axes? An' cheer up, my hearty, for, d'ye mind me, lad, pipin' your eye won't stop the leak when the ship's a-sinkin'.”
What boots it to linger over the noisy, but none the less genuine grief, of the faithful Spottie when he learned the sad truth? Nor is it necessary to describe at length the sad preparations for consigning the dead captain to his long home beneath the waves that had been his home so long in life. Suffice it to say that without loss of time a rude bier was constructed on which to convey the remains to the beach, and that while this was preparing there occurred an event so remarkable, and withal of so important a bearing upon the future of the quest, as to merit something more than mere passing mention.
It happened while the three were in the jungle cutting materials for the litter, and it concerned the fatal cord.
“Until the lascar's paid out, I'll keep this as a reminder of what I owe him,” Don had said grimly, just before starting; and taking the lascars knife from his belt he stuck it into a crevice in the “fo'csle” wall, and hung the snake-like cord upon it.
Spottie and Puggles being too timid to leave with the dead, or to send alone into the jungle in quest of materials for the bier—for was it not at nightfall that shadowy spooks walked abroad?—Don was forced to bear them company. There was no help for it; the captain's body must be left unguarded in their absence—except, indeed, for such watch-care as puny Bosin was able to give it.
Up to the moment of their setting out the monkey had not for a single instant left his master's side. This fact served to render all the more extraordinary the discovery they made on their return—namely, that the monkey had quitted his post. What could have induced him to abandon his master at such a moment was a mystery.
And the mystery deepened when Don, wanting the knife, sought it in the “fo'csle,” for, to his astonishment, neither knife nor cord was to be found.
“Dey spooks done steal urn, sar,” cried Spottie, with chattering teeth.
“Huh,” objected Puggles, between whom and Spottie there had grown up a sharp rivalry during their brief acquaintance, “why they no steal dead sahib? I axes.” Then to his master: “Lascar maybe done come back, sahib.”
This suggestion certainly smacked more of plausibility than that offered by Spottie, since it not only accounted for the disappearance of the cord and knife, but of Bosin as well. Was it too much to believe that the faithful creature's hatred, instinctively awakened by the lascar's stealthy return, had outweighed affection for his dead master and impelled him to abandon the one that he might track the other? Remembering the intelligence exhibited by the monkey in the past, Don at least was satisfied that this explanation was the true one.
By midnight all was in readiness, and with heavy hearts they took up their dead and began the toilsome descent to the creek. This reached, the Jolly Tar was drawn from her place of concealment, and the captain's body lashed in a tarpaulin. Then, with white wings spread, the cutter bore silently away from the creek's mouth in quest of a last resting-place for the master whose behest she was never again to obey.
“This will do,” said Don, when a half-hour's run had put them well off-shore. “Take the tiller, Pug, and keep her head to the wind for a little.”
With bowed head he opened the well-worn Prayer Book, and, while the waves chanted a solemn funeral dirge, read in hushed tones the office for the burial of the dead at sea. A pause, a tear glinting in the moonlight, a splash—and just as the morning star flashed out like a beacon above the eastern sea-rim, the old sailor began the Eternal Voyage.
“And now,” said Don, as he brought the cutters head round in the direction of the creek; “now for the last tussle and justice for the dead. Let me only come face to face once more with that murderous lascar or his master, and no false notions of mercy shall stay my hand—so help me Heaven!”
And surely not Heaven itself could deem that vow unrighteous.
The last melancholy duty to the captain discharged, Don threw himself heart and fist—as Jack would have said—into the work cut out for him; and by the time the Jolly Tar was again rubbing her nose against the inner wall of the grotto, he had decided to abandon the Haunted Pagodas and to make this secluded spot—next door to the back entrance of the Elephant Rock—his base of operations.
“Up to now it's been all take and no give,” he said to himself; “but now we've got to act, and act like a steel trap, sharp and sure. What is it the old school motto says?—'bis dat qui cito dat,' 'a quick blow's as good as two any day.' The old Roman who strung that together knew what he was talking about, anyhow, and I'll put his old saw to the test before another sun sets.”
In the letter of which Bosin had been the bearer Jack had said—“They take me to the Elephant Rock to-night.” Twice since then had night come and gone; and if his chum had not perished in the village holocaust, in the Elephant Rock he was probably to be found. Hurrah for the finding!
The muskets were still at the “fo'csle,” for that sad midnight descent of the hill had left their hands too full for weapons. Besides, none were needed then. They were needed now, however, so there was nothing for it but to climb the hill after them. This, and the time necessarily consumed in snatching a hasty meal, delayed the start by a good two hours.
At length all was ready, and tumbling into the canoe they pushed off. To stick to the literal truth, Spottie did the tumbling. In spite of all his efforts to assume a dignity of carriage in keeping with his weapons and the occasion, the cutlass at Spottie's belt would persist in getting at crosspurposes with his long, thin legs, and so throw him, physically speaking, off his balance. Once seated in the canoe, however, with the point of the cutlass in dangerous proximity to Puggles's back, and the old flint-lock so disposed upon his knees as to hit Don to a dead certainty if by any mischance it went off, Spottie looked exceedingly fierce—in fact, an out-and-out swashbuckler.
Not so Puggles. No weapons could make him look other than what nature had made him—a happy-go-lucky, fun-and-food loving, sunny-faced lump of oily blackness. The extra broad grin that tugged at the far corners of bis expansive mouth proclaimed him at peace with all the world—especially with that important section of it bounded by his swelling waistband—and gave the lie direct to his warlike equipment.
Of crossing the creek Don made short work, and soon they stood upon the rock platform, where, but little more than twenty-four hours before, the landing and sudden disappearance of the native crew had put them in possession of the key which was now, if fortune favoured them, to unlock the secret of Jack's fate, and, haply, the door of his prison-house.
Yonder on the right—for the spot was light enough by day, despite its curtain of vegetation—could be seen the black mouth of the tunnel running under the creek, and so to the summit of Haunted Pagoda Hill; here, on the left, that by which the natives had taken their departure. It was with this that Don's business lay now; and as he led the way into it he recalled with a sorrowful smile that quaint fancy of the captain's which made this approach to the Rook “the tail o' the Elephant.” And here was the very spot where he had uttered the words. He almost fancied he could see the old sailor standing there still, his wooden leg thrust well forward, his cap well back, and Bosin perched contentedly upon his broad shoulder. Alas for fancy!
But what was this that came leaping down the dim vista of steps? No creature of fancy surely, but actual flesh and blood. Only flesh and blood in the form of a monkey, it is true, but what mattered that, since the monkey was none other than Bosin himself?
A jubilant shout from Puggles greeted his appearance—a shout which Don, fearful of discovery, immediately checked—while Spottie made as if to catch the returned truant. But the impish Bosin would have none of him; eluding the grasp of the black, he sprang upon Don's shoulder. Only then did Don observe that the monkey was not empty-handed. He carried something hugged tightly against his breast.
Like all his tribe, Bosin had a pretty penchant for annexing any chance article that happened to take his fancy, without regard to ordinary rights of property.
“Prigging again, eh?” said Don, as he gently disengaged the monkey's booty from his grasp. “What have you got this time?”
To his astonishment he saw that he held in his hands the lascar's cord, and—surely he was not mistaken?—the fellow to that half of Jack's handkerchief in which his letter had been wrapped up when despatched from the village per monkey post.
Bosin's mysterious disappearance, then, was explained. In quitting his dead master's side so unaccountably he had had a purpose in view—a monkeyish, unreasoning purpose, doubtless, but none the less a purpose—which was none other than to track the lascar to his lair and regain possession of the cord. Not that he knew in the least the value to Don of the yard of twisted hemp, or the significance of the scrap of crumpled, bloodstained cambric he was at such pains to filch. With only blind instinct for his guide, he had been guided better than he knew; for while the cord proved the Elephant Rock to be the hiding-place of the lascar, the handkerchief proved, or seemed to prove, that Jack was still alive and that the lascar's hiding-place was his prison.
Don's heart leapt at the discovery.
Perhaps Jack, unable for some reason to scribble even so much as a word, had entrusted the handkerchief to the monkey's care, knowing that the sight of it would assure his chum of his safety, if it did no more. Or perhaps Bosin had carried it off while Jack slept?
A thousand conjectures flashed through Don's brain, but he thrust them hastily aside, since mere conjecture could not release his chum; and calling to the blacks to follow, he sprang up the steps with a lighter heart. The monkey swung himself down from his perch and took the lead, as if instinctively divining the object of their quest; chattering gleefully when the trio pressed close upon his heels—impatiently when they lagged behind.
The steps surmounted, they discovered an offshoot from the main tunnel, from which point of division the latter dwindled straight away into a mere dot of light in the distance. In the main tunnel itself the light was faint enough; but as they advanced it increased in brilliancy till presently—the distance being actually much less than the unbroken perspective of chiselled rock made it appear—they emerged suddenly into the broad light of day, streaming down through an oblong cleft or gash cut deep into the solid heart of the Rock.
The light itself was more welcome than what it revealed.
Directly across their path, at their very feet indeed, extended a yawning chasm, of depth unknown—but, as the first glance served to show, of such breadth as to effectually bar their further progress.
To be sure, skirting the end wall on the extreme left was a ledge along which the agile monkey made his way to the opposite side of the pit with little or no difficulty; but, as for following him, by that road at least, why, the thing was an utter impossibility. The ledge was a mere thread. Scarce a handbreadth of rock lay between the smooth-cut upper wall and the perpendicular face of the pit.
“Blow me!” muttered Don, unconsciously echoing the phrase he had so often heard on the captains lips, “if this ain't the purtiest go as ever I see!” Which assertion was purely figurative; for as he was only too well aware it was “no go” at all, so far as the pit was concerned.
Peering over the brink of the chasm he found it to be partially filled with water, between which and the spot where he stood intervened perhaps thirty feet of sheer wall. An uninviting pool it looked, lying as green and putrescent within its sunken basin as if the bones of unnumbered dead men were rotting in its depths. The very sunshine that fell in great golden blotch upon its surface seemed to shrink from its foul touch.
But what struck Don as the strangest feature of this noisome pool was the constant agitation of its waters. To what was it due? What were those black, glistening objects floating here and there upon its surface? And those others, ranged along the half-submerged ledge on the far side? A small fragment of stone chanced to lie near him. He picked it up and aimed it at one of these curious objects. To his astonishment the black mass slowly shifted its position and plunged with a wallowing splash into the pool. Puggles, who had been looking on with mouth agape, raised a shout.
“Him corkadile, sa'b! Me sometimes bery often seeing um in riber. Him plenty appetite got!”
“Ugh, the monsters!” muttered his master, watching with a sort of horrible fascination the movements of the hulking reptiles, which lifted their ugly, square snouts towards him as if scenting prey. “Here's a pretty kettle of fish! Crossing this hole is hound to be a tough job at the best—but, as if that wasn't enough, these brutes must turn up and add danger to difficulty. Plenty appetite? I should think so, indeed, in such a hole as this! However, crocodile or no crocodile, it's got to be crossed.”
Until now he had rather wondered, to tell the truth, why it was that not a single native had crossed their path. He had expected to find the passage guarded. The pit, not to say the crocodiles, shed a flood of light—not very cheering light, he was forced to admit—upon this point. No doubt the natives considered themselves in little danger from intrusion, so long as they were guarded by a dozen feet of sheer pit, with a dozen brace or so of healthy crocodiles at the bottom of it.
And probably they were right so far as concerned intruders of their own colour and pluck; but Don was made of sturdier stuff than native clay. Beyond the crocodile pit lay his chum, a prisoner. Cross it he must, and would. Therefore, to borrow the expressive phrase of an American humorist, he “rose to the emergency and caved the emergency's head in.”
Was the pit too wide to leap? Spanning it with his eye, he estimated its width at a dozen feet; certainly not less. A tremendous leap that, and fraught with fearful risk. And even should he be able to take it, what of Spottie and Puggles? They would never dare face it. And what, too, of the muskets and cutlasses?
Suddenly he descried, just where the continuation of the tunnel pierced the wall on the far side of the pit, an object that inspired him with fresh hope and determination. True, it was nothing more than a plank, but once that plank was in his hands, he could, perhaps, bridge the pit.
A dozen feet at the very least! Could he clear it? To jump short of the opposite ledge, to reach it, even, and then slip, meant certain and horrible death at the jaws of the crocodiles. Should he venture? Jack had ventured much for him. He slipped off his shoes—his stockinged feet would afford a surer foothold—and quietly bade the blacks stand aside. Sauntering carelessly into the tunnel—that by which they had approached the pit—a distance of forty paces or so, he turned, drew a deep breath, threw all his lithe strength into the short run, his whole soul into the leap, and—— Would he clear it?
No—yes! A horrified shriek from the blacks, and he was over, the pit a scant handbreadth behind him.
Dragging the plank from its place of partial concealment, he was delighted to find a short piece of rope attached to it. Good; it would facilitate the bridging of the chasm. Standing on the brink, he coiled the rope—not without a misgiving that it was too short for his purpose—and, calling to Spottie to catch the end, threw it out over the pit sailor-fashion. It fell short.
“Stop!” cried he. “This will make it right;” and drawing the lascar's cord from his pocket, he knotted it to the rope. This time Spottie succeeded in grasping the end; and so, with the aid of the lascar's cord, the plank was drawn across. Its length was such that it bridged the pit from wall to wall, with a foot of spring-way to spare at either end.
At the time Don thought nothing of this apparently trivial incident; yet, had he but known it, with that cord he had laid a death-trap for the-captain's murderer.
The rest was easy. In five minutes the blacks had crawled across, with many fearful glances at the upturned snouts of the huge reptiles below; and Don, treading the springy length of plank with sure foot, had transferred muskets and cutlasses to what he mentally termed “Jack's side” of the chasm. They were now ready for a fresh start.
All this time Bosin had watched their movements with an expression of mingled shrewdness and approval in his restless eyes that seemed to say: “Ha! the very thing I'd do myself were I in the fix you're in.” Again he took the lead, like one who had travelled the road before, and was quite satisfied in his own mind that he knew all its little ins and outs.
His knowledge of the way became more apparent still when, after penetrating the heart of the rock for some distance, the tunnel split into three distinct branches. This point Don hesitated to pass; but not so Bosin. Without a pause he took the passage to the right, glancing back as if to assure himself that he was followed. Off this gallery others opened, until it became evident that, as the captain had once affirmed, the rock was honeycombed “from maindeck to keelson.” But for the monkey's guidance Don must have found himself utterly at a loss amid so perplexing a labyrinth. As it was, he pressed forward with confidence.
Danger of discovery, owing to the multiplicity of passages, now increased momentarily. Any of these ghostly corridors might afford concealment to an enemy who, warned of danger by the muffled echo of approaching steps, might steal away, silently and unobserved, and so raise the alarm. Though still in his stocking feet, Don instinctively found himself treading on tip-toe, while the bare-footed blacks—who were even less inclined for a brush with the enemy than he—purposely did the same. Even then their movements, well-nigh noiseless though they were, caused commotion amongst the bats that clung in patches of living fungi to the vaulted roof, and sent them wheeling hither and thither in swift, startled flight.
To succeed in finding his chum, and to liberate him ere discovery came, was almost more than Don dared hope for. For come it must, sooner or later. Only, once Jack was by his side, he cared little how soon or in what manner it came. True, the natives possessed the seeming advantage of overwhelming numbers; but in these rock corridors the nozzle of a single musket was better than a hundred men.
To do him justice, he had thrust the pearls entirely out of his thoughts in his eagerness to set Jack at liberty. “Time enough to think about the pearls afterwards,” he said to himself—forgetting that “afterwards” was at the best but a blind alley, full of unknown pitfalls.
They were now well into the heart of the Elephant Bock, where any moment might bring them face to face with Jack or his captors, or both.
At this point the monkey, who was some yards in advance, suddenly stopped and uttered a peculiar hissing sound. Once before—when, on the rock platform, Bosin had given warning of the approach of the canoes—had Don heard that hiss. There was no mistaking its significance. He motioned to the blacks to halt, and with stealthy tread crept forward alone.
Just ahead a sharp bend in the passage limited his view to a few yards of indifferently lighted wall. Hugging the inner side of this bend, he presently gained the jutting shoulder of rock which formed the dividing line between the vista of gallery behind and that ahead, and from this point of vantage peered cautiously round the projection in search of the cause of Bosin's alarm.
This was not far to seek. Immediately beyond the bend the passage expanded into a sort of vestibule, communicating, by means of a lofty portal, with a spacious, well-lighted chamber. It was not this discovery, however, that riveted his gaze, but a dusky figure crouched on the floor of the vestibule—the figure of a native, reclining on a mat, with his back to the spot where Don stood. By his side lay a sword of curious workmanship, and a huge conch-shell, the pearly pink of its inner surface contrasting strangely with the native's coffee-coloured skin. The weapon and the shell told their own tale: the native was doing “sentry-go.”
Over what or whom? With swift glance Don scanned every nook and corner of the vestibule, and as much of the interior chamber as lay within range of his vision. So far as he could see both were empty, barring only the dusky sentinel. Then he fancied he heard the faint clanking of a chain, though from what direction the sound proceeded it was impossible to determine. Listening with bated breath, he heard it again, and now it seemed to come from the larger chamber. His pulses thrilled, and a determined light shone in his eyes as he turned them once more upon the sentinel.
“I'll jolly soon fix you, old chap,” he said to himself; and noiselessly clubbing the musket he carried, he prepared to advance.
But for the monkey's vigilance he must have come upon the recumbent guard without the slightest warning, for not more than ten paces separated the shoulder of rock—Don's post of observation—from the mat on which the native reclined.
To fire upon him was out of the question, since that would fulfil the very purpose for which he, with his conch-shell trumpet, was stationed there—namely, to send a thousand wild echoes hurtling through chamber and galleries, and so apprise his comrades of impending danger. Moreover, Don had a wholesome horror of bloodshed, which at most times effectually held his trigger finger in check.
A swift, sure blow—that would be the best means of keeping the native's lips from the nozzle of his conch-trumpet. A blow—ay, there was the-rub! For, though the native's back was towards-him, the space by which they two were divided must be crossed; and these walls, dumb as they looked, had hidden tongues, which would echo and re-echo the faintest sound. Could he, then, get near enough to strike?
Inch by inch he crept towards the unconscious sentinel, slowly raising the butt of the musket as he advanced. So intense was the suspense of those few brief moments that he hardly breathed. It seemed as if the very beating of his heart must reach the native's ears. Inch by inch, foot by foot, until——