We had been asleep some hours, for the sun had set, and a large, glorious-faced moon was shining down full upon this uncultivated but splendid land, when I was startled broad-awake by a hand being placed on my shoulder. At the same moment Mr Ferguson’s voice whispered in my ear—
“Richard—Richard Galbraith, get up; I believe our retreat is discovered, and the Kaffirs are upon us.”
Chapter Four.
A Visit from a Native—The Mercy of Providence.
The moon shone in over the tops of the bushes outside the cave, with a broad flood of splendid silver light, throwing fantastic shadows inside upon the minister and me, the heap of ashes left from the fire, and on Jack Thompson, still sleeping in the further corner.
The beams falling at a direct angle, the foot of the bushes, by contrast, was left in intense darkness, and in this direction it was that, as the minister aroused me, I caught the sound of a stealthy movement. With suspended breath I half raised myself on my elbow. The minister knelt by my side, his left hand clutching my arm, his face turned to the entrance of the cave, with a finger raised to his lip, commanding silence.
We felt at that moment that our lives trembled in the balance, and, scarcely permitting a nerve to stir, we watched.
The stealthy rustling among the bushes, continued, evidently coming nearer. Once I motioned towards Jack Thompson with a look that I thought he ought to be awakened, but bending to my ear Mr Ferguson whispered,—