Through the Heart of the Earth.
When he felt his horse’s feet slipping from beneath him over the brink, Claverton expected nothing less than instant death. Yet in that terrible moment the whole picture was imprinted on his brain—the fierce foes rushing on, assegai uplifted; the terrified, rolling eye of his trembling steed; the sunlit sward; the green, monotonous sweep of bush in the valley far below, into which he was being hurled; even a thin line of blue smoke, which might be from a friendly camp miles and miles away in the bush, did not escape him. And side by side with the picture spread before and around him, in every minutest detail, came the thought of Lilian—what she would say when she came to hear of his end, and whether, from the spirit-world, he would be allowed to look once more on that tenderly-loved face, and, above all, whether he would ever be able to carry out his vengeance upon the man who had brought him to this. All passed like a lightning gleam across his brain, and then he felt himself falling—falling—down into space. The air roared and shrieked in his ears, his breath failed him, then his hands seized something. The whole world was hanging in his grasp, rocking and swaying; he could not leave go; it was dragging him downward—downward—downward—it was tearing his arms out by the sockets. He must throw it off; and yet he could not. Then a crash, and—oblivion.
How long he lay he could not tell. Slowly and confusedly consciousness began to reassert itself. He half opened his eyes, and quickly closed them again. It was dark; there was a cold, earthy smell. Stars floated before his vision, and indefinite shapes, with dull, far-away echoes. He was dead, and they had buried him. He could hear the spadefuls of earth being thrown upon his coffin. The sound was growing fainter and fainter; they had nearly finished. And Lilian—she was standing weeping over his grave. Ah, Lilian, it is too late to weep now! Yes, she was weeping as if her heart would break, and the horrible weight of the earth, with its cold, damp, mouldy smell, kept him down; he could not reach her. Only seven feet of earth—oh, God! and it might as well be seven hundred! Then he heard Truscott’s voice—as the voice of a smooth, insidious demon—whispering words of love to her, and claiming the fulfilment of her promise. Fiend, traitor, murderer! He would burst his grave now, and rend him limb from limb! Not the weight of a thousand worlds could hold him down! And, with a mighty effort he raised himself into a sitting posture and looked around.
A puff of cool air fanned his brow. It was dark—no, not quite. A beam of light, shooting through from the outer world like a dart of flame, dazzled his eyes; then another and another, losing themselves in the further gloom. Is he not dead after all? How can that be? Yes, he is dead, and this is the world of spirits.
Again he closes his eyes. A few moments more, and the suspended faculties become clearer. He looks forth again. He is alive, and in a cave, and the shafts of light are as much of that indispensable element as can penetrate a thick mass of creepers which falls over its entrance. But how came he there?
Instinctively, as he felt himself falling, Claverton had kicked his feet free of the stirrups; and instinctively again, and without being aware of it, he had clutched at the first substance which had come in his way—a trailing ladder of creepers hanging from the rock—and this it was which had made him feel as if he was supporting the whole weight of the globe in his hands. But the jerk had been too great. For a fraction of a second he thus hung, then fell—fell clean through a dense network of creepers which closed over him with a spring, thus shutting him into the cave, or rather hole, in which he awoke to find himself.
And now the spark of hope rekindled darts through his frame with an electric thrill. He is still alive and unhurt, in the more serious sense of the word, that is, for no bones are broken, though he is stiff and sore and shaken by his fall. He will yet live—live to destroy his enemy, and to possess himself once more of Lilian’s love, free from the possibility of any further disturbing influence. He looks round his present quarters—truly an ark of refuge—but can make out nothing save the shadowy rock overhead. Then, cautiously approaching the entrance, he listens.
No; it will not do to look out just yet. The Kafirs are still beneath, and he can hear distinctly the deep bass hum of their voices, can even catch their exclamations of surprise at his unaccountable disappearance. He is unaware of the exact position of his hiding-place, and the faintest movement on his part might lead to his instant detection. So he restrains his anxiety to peep forth, and, as he lies perdu, even chuckles over the supernatural theories set forth by the Kafirs to account for his disappearance.
For upwards of an hour he remains perfectly still; long after he has heard the voices of his enemies grow fainter and fainter, and ultimately cease to be audible as they give up the search. Then, thrusting his head through the network of trailers, he peers cautiously out. The sun has set, and a peaceful evening stillness lies upon the forest beneath, and there is no sign of the enemy. Then Claverton begins seriously to take account of his position. He cannot see the brink of the precipice overhead, but he judges from its height further along, that he has fallen about forty feet, and that the network of creepers, yielding to his weight, alone had saved him from certain death. But, meanwhile, how is he to get down, or up? One way is about as practicable as the other. Beneath, the rock falls, with here and there a rugged pinnacle projecting from its face, but sheer; while above, its surface for long intervals is perfectly smooth. A terrible fear chills his heart. He has only escaped from a sudden and swift death, to meet with a lingering one by starvation; here, in this hideous, lonely cave, beyond the possibility of human aid. A rope from the summit might reach him, but was it in the least likely that any friendly patrol would visit this wild fastness, haunted, as it was, by hostile bands? And even if it did, how improbable that its members would have a rope, or be able to improvise one long enough and strong enough to reach him; even were he not too weak from the effects of starvation to use it if they did. No. He must look for no succour that way.
Then his thoughts recur to the day that he and Lilian climbed up to that other cave during the fishing picnic four years ago. But for the inaccessibility of the place, some holiday party, in years to come, might make their way up here and find his crumbling bones, and recoil with loathing horror from his whitened skull, even as she had done from the grisly remains in that other cavern. And the grey rocks stand forth beneath and around, waxing greyer in the fading light; bright-eyed conies peep forth from their holes, and scamper along the ledges; a night-jar darts noiselessly on soft wing in pursuit of its prey; bats flit and circle in the gloaming; beneath, the green bush has changed to a sombre blackness; while floating upon the stillness of desolation, the weird voices of the forest begin their mysterious concert. And there, upon that narrow ledge, poised in mid-air, beyond the reach of all human aid—lost, forgotten and alone—stands this man, with death before him at last.