“We need not fear, my sweet one,” whispered the heroine at his side. “We are dying together.”
Nearer—nearer, came those cat-like footfalls. Then they ceased. The pulses of the two anxious listeners beat with an intense and surging throb of expectation in the dead silence.
But instead of those stealthy feet, swift to shed blood, there was borne upon the night the sound of horses’ hoofs. Then a crash of fire-arms, and a ringing cheer. No savage war-cry that, but a genuine British shout.
“That you, Milne?” cried a familiar voice. “All right: keep cool, old man. We shan’t hit you by mistake. How many are there?”
“I don’t know. Better not tackle them in the dark, Hoste. Who is with you?”
“Some Police. But where are the niggers?”
Where indeed? Savages have no stomach for facing unknown odds. Their late assailants had prudently made themselves scarce.
“We seem to be only just in time, anyway?” said Hoste, with a long whistle of consternation as he realised the critical position of affairs. “Is Mrs Carhayes all right?” he added anxiously.
“Quite, thanks, Mr Hoste,” replied Eanswyth. “But you are, as you say, only just in time.”
Two of the Police horses were inspanned to the buggy, the men mounting behind comrades, and the party set forth. It would not do to linger. The enemy might return in force at any moment.