Carefully he looks over the ledge, narrowly scrutinising the rock beneath and around; but the first glance convinces him that it is useless. No creepers grow on the face of the cliff; even the tops of the highest trees are at a dizzy distance below. There is no foothold, even for a baboon. Ah! The cave itself! He has not explored that. Re-entering, he strikes a match—a knife, a box of matches, and a bit of reimpje being the proverbial contents of a frontiersman’s pockets, even though they contain nothing else—and begins his exploration. There is no outlet that way. Overhead the rock slopes down to the back of the cave, and here and there it is wet with ooze. He can but dimly make out the outlines in the gloom by the flicker of his wax vesta. Suddenly the flame goes out, extinguished by a puff of cold air which blows up into the explorer’s face. He lights another. Yawning at his very feet is a hole—a long, jagged hole, just wide enough to admit his body; one step more and he would have fallen in. Tearing a bit of paper from his pocket he lights it and throws it in. At first it will not fall: quite a strong current of air holds it up. This, in itself is a good sign, and Claverton begins to feel hopeful as he watches it sink, down, down, lighting up the chasm, and throwing a wet gleam on the slippery sides eloping down into unknown depths.
He sits down and begins to ponder over the situation. A strong current such as comes up this hole betokens an outlet somewhere, and the only way of finding that outlet is to go down the hole. He can get down, for the sides are near enough together for a man to descend by using his hands and knees freely. But once down, can he get up again? A natural thrill of horror runs through him at the idea of burying himself away down in the very bowels of the earth. To remain where he is means death, but it is to die in the full, open light of day, with the air of heaven breathing around him. To descend into that dark, slimy pit, and perhaps find no outlet after all, and not even be able to retrace his steps; to die in that frightful oubliette, amid who can tell what noisome horrors! It is an alternative enough to appal the stoutest heart, and no wonder Claverton’s brain sickens at the thought. But it is his only chance. He rises, goes out on the ledge once more, and stands for a few moments drinking in the fresh cool breaths of the fast-gathering night; then, returning to the chasm, begins his descent.
A lighted match in his hand, and with pieces of paper torn up in his pocket ready to kindle at intervals, he lets himself down, working his way cautiously with his knees against the opposite rock, but the task is a far more difficult one than it appears. Once or twice he slips several feet, and the skin is worn from his hands and knees in several places. At length he stops; panting violently and nearly exhausted; and as he holds himself wedged against the sides of the crevice to rest, it strikes him that those sides are getting wider. By the light of another match he looks down. Oh, horror! Two yards deeper—he has already descended ten—and the chasm widens out to a breadth of at least twenty feet. A cold perspiration breaks from every pore. Great beads stand upon his forehead and his brain is on the whirl. It is frightful; there, in the pitchy darkness. His blood curdles in every vein. His strength can hold out no longer; in a moment he will yield, and disappear for ever from the sight of humankind, immured, self-entombed in the rocky heart of the earth. Rushing noises are in his ears, hands touch him, wings sweep over him; then he slips, slides with the rapidity of lightning; he is being torn in pieces, flayed alive. Then, with a shock, his descent ceases. He is on his feet. But where?
During the fall he has retained consciousness, and now, as he opens his eyes in the pitchy darkness, it seems that he can hear the sound of running water. Is it, too, a delusion? No, there it is distinctly, a mere runnel, but echoing with a cavernous boom through that grim silence. And the sound is as the music of hope. The water must have an outlet somewhere. Again Claverton lights a match. He is on comparatively level ground, sloping away in the form of a conduit, down which the water is trickling, while above, the rocks lose themselves in gloomy distance. With a new-born joy at his heart, he follows the course of this subterranean stream, guided by the sound of the water, now falling headlong over a boulder, now knocking his head against the roof, for he must husband his matches, as they are drawing near the end. Oh, God! Will this awful, rayless night never cease—this thick blackness, this horrible silence? His heart dies again within him as the atmosphere becomes more and more heavy and oppressive.
Header, have you ever stood within a disused mine, or any other cavern, artificial or natural, far beneath the surface of the earth? Have you then extinguished your light and caused your companions to do the same, keeping perfect silence for a few minutes? If you have you will remember the intense longing that came over you for one spark of light, the sound of a voice to break the frightful stillness, for one breath of the upper air, so shut out do you seem from the rest of humankind even as in the nethermost shades. What must be the feelings, then, of one to whom it is probable that the light of day will never again be vouchsafed?
Claverton puts out his hand. It encounters something cold and writhing. With a thrill of shuddering horror he recoils, and his fingers shake—he can hardly strike a match. At length he does so, and lo, by the red, flickering light he can see two or three great, dark, hideous shapes, whose multitudinous legs cling to the rock as the shining, creeping things wind their lengths along. Oh, God—what is to be the end of this? Will he go mad? Entombed in that pitchy darkness, with these frightful creatures crawling around him—upon him. It happened that Claverton had an exaggerated horror of anything creeping, and now in this hell-pit, alone with those loathsome creatures, the man who has just faced death with perfect calmness in two of its most appalling forms—the spears of five hundred merciless foes in front, a giddy height behind—trembles and shudders like a woman. For a dozen yards he dashes forward as fast as his legs can carry him, and, coming violently against the wall of the cavern, sinks down panting and breathless upon a rock. Something falls into the water at his feet with a splash. Light! Air! This den of darkness seems swarming with noisome reptiles. The legs of some creeping thing pass swiftly across his cheek, and again he shudders, and his heart throbs as if it would burst.
A faint rustle just above his ear. He looks up with a start, prepared for fresh horrors. What does he see that causes the blood to course and bound through his veins with such a wild thrill? It is a star. Yes, a star—bright, beautiful, and twinkling—only one solitary star, piercing the blackness of this frightful hell-cave, telling of light and air—the free air of heaven—and—he dare not add—possible deliverance. A cool breeze fans his brow, wafted through a crevice in the rock, and through the crevice he can just see that one solitary star. Even if he must die now he can still keep his gaze fixed upon that one shining eye of heaven, looking in upon him from the outer air—the sweet, blessed outer air. But no. That star is there to cheer him, to encourage him—not to doom him. With hope rekindled he advances a few steps and lights a match. It will hardly burn, so strong is the draught which blows in. He continues his way. Every now and again he can see more stars through the holes which become more frequent and larger, and he can see that he is in a fissure which runs along beneath the face of the rock, and which now begins to slant rapidly downwards. Everything is forgotten now; deliverance is at hand; for a rush of wind, which can come through no smaller an aperture than one wide enough to admit the body of a man, blows up into the tunnel. Patience! Care! He can hear the rustle of trees against the cliff on a level with his ear, and he guesses that he must be near the base of the precipice. A slide of a few feet—a dozen yards along a rocky ledge crawling on his hands and knees, the cavern widens, and, with such a feeling of relief as he has seldom, if ever, experienced before in the course of his life, Claverton steps forth from his subterranean prison-house and stands looking out into the moonlit valley, drinking in the fresh, cool night air in grateful draughts.
How delicious is that refreshing breeze after his terrible immurement! How beautiful the silvery hue of the sprays of the unending bush, sleeping beneath the stars, how soft their rustle as they quiver in the night wind! A pointed moon hangs in the sky nearly at half, and the Southern Cross rivals in its flashing brilliance the whole complement of the rolling planets. Then comes a reaction, and Claverton begins to feel stiff and battered, for he has been badly bruised in both his falls, and his nerves have been sorely shaken by the events of the last few hours; moreover, he has eaten next to nothing that day, and a faintness begins to creep over him. The prostration of body extends to his mind. What does it matter if he dies here alone in the wilderness? he thinks. Lilian has cast him off; she could never really have loved him. Better die and save all further trouble. In health such thoughts would never have occurred to him; now—bruised, shaken, and prostrate—a languorous feeling of fatality takes hold of his mind, and, shutting his eyes, he sits down at the foot of the great cliff, and the cool air plays upon his brow.
Ha! what is that? Cautiously he raises his head and listens. Is it a patrol? Aid—succour? No; the tread is of light feet—naked feet. It draws near, and Claverton has just time to step back within the gloom of his late prison-house as a large band of warriors glides swiftly past, and the moonlight gleams on the red, naked shoulders and on the gun-barrels and assegai blades, as the savages flit silently like spectres through the bush. They have not seen him, it is true, but can it be that they are still hunting for him? In the morning they will find his spoor, and then it will be the work of an hour or two to run him down—enfeebled, nearly exhausted, and quite unarmed as he is; for in his fall his belt broke and got lost, and with it his revolver and sheath-knife. An unarmed and half-starved man, alone in an unknown country, with bands of fierce savages quartering the forest like hounds in his pursuit. What chance had he?
But whatever chance he has must not be thrown away. He will start at once; yet not at once, for sound travels an enormous distance in the bush at night, and it is indispensable that the party which has just gone by shall be allowed sufficient time to get out of hearing. So he waits and waits, till at last he can wait no longer. Emerging from his shelter he glances at the stars, and, guided by those friendly lamps of heaven, steps boldly forth into the bush.