“As long as they do no harm,” repeated Elvesdon, with a touch of significance. “That is well, Manamandhla—that is well.” And he turned away.
“Where are these crevices, Miss Thornhill? It’s curious how they occur in some of these mountain ranges. I got into one myself once, but fortunately it wasn’t particularly deep, or I should be there still.”
“Where was that?”
“In the Cape Colony. I was there on leave, and put in a time with an old official pal of mine. We went reebok-shooting in the mountains, and I got into such a hole as one of these, stepped backwards into it. Fortunately my pal was near enough to hear me sing out, or I might not have been able to pull myself up.”
“This is a deep one,” said Edala. “Come and look. If you drop a stone over, you hear it clanging against the sides ever so far down. Listen, now.”
She dropped a stone over, and both stood listening.
“By Jove, but it is deep,” said Elvesdon. “And beastly dangerous too, almost hidden in the grass.”
Thornhill had not joined them. He was seated on the flat rock, puffing away at his pipe. The ghastliness of the situation was known to him and to one other there present—and here was this unthinking girl dropping stones into this particular cleft, of all others on that mountain top—of all others in the world.
“That is one of the ‘mouths’ that gives not back its prey,” said the deep voice of Manamandhla. “Whau! It retains that which it swallows.” Then with a word of farewell greeting he withdrew, but in the opposite direction to that by which they had ascended.
“Hadn’t we better go down?” said Thornhill. “It’ll be dark directly.”