The Reverend Mr Ferguson had a slim, gentlemanly figure, and a pale, thoughtful, studious face, but one which was frequently lighted up by the most pleasant, sunshiny, and kindly of smiles.
“Thank God,” he added devoutly, as he raised his eyes upward, “that there is, indeed, another of us saved.”
As Jack Thompson had said, Mr Ferguson’s “preachifying” no longer seemed out of place; and for myself, I am sure in my heart I most devoutly said Amen to the thanksgiving. Then, getting up, I asked if he could at all tell in what part of Caffraria we were—for that we were somewhere on that coast I was certain.
“From the few observations I have been able to make, I fancy this spot must be between Delagoa Bay and Natal,” he replied.
“And the natives, Sir,” put in Jack Thompson.
“Of them I know little by recent report, save that some of the tribes are friendly, while others are very hostile to the white man.”
“Pray Heaven,” I ejaculated, “that we may signal a ship before there is time to make their acquaintance.”
“If it be Heaven’s will, yes,” rejoined the missionary, fervently. “But who knows, He may have cast us on these shores as a fitting soil to plant the seeds of His religion, which alone can give eternal happiness.”
Jack and I made no answer, for as yet we were too worldly and weak of faith to feel as resigned to the ways of Providence as this self-sacrificing young minister, whose constant study was his Master’s will.
“But come,” he added cheerfully, “now we find it is an old comrade that, for the last half hour has been frightening us, let us continue our search for shelter and rest.” Instantly concurring in this proposal, we soon found an overhanging rock, which formed a species of cave, the inside being well sheltered from the view of anyone on the outside by thickly tangled mimosa, and other bushes.