A Night in the Reeds.
The day’s long march had tired them, and wanting the sociable aid of a fire, they soon fell asleep, each one on his own bed of reeds, lulled by the continuous ripple and murmur of the waving mass. The two blacks slept with their blankets completely drawn over their heads, so that no sound disturbed them, but the other three in turn would start, and with lifted head peer vainly into the blackness round them, and twice Laura reached out a hand on either side to feel if her protectors were there, and each time the hand instinctively was grasped in a strong palm.
At a deep, low growl of some prowling animal, perchance the lion seen on the march, Hume sat up gently and cradled his gun on his knees, giving ear to the soft, mysterious creeping noises, as though a legion of elves were whispering in the reeds, and eyeing the stars for comfort. As he listened he heard the beast outside move off, uttering a deep-drawn sigh, and he was about to lie down again, when he fancied he heard the sound of another animal sniffing. The noise, however, was not repeated, or the heavy breathing of the sleepers prevented him from tracing it, but he was on his guard again, with every sense on the alert. He could feel that something was stealing in upon them, and the slight path they could not avoid making when they entered was no doubt being used. He had fixed his couch opposite the entrance, and held his rifle with the muzzle towards it; but if his suspicions were correct, and something was approaching, the movement was more stealthy than the advance of a footless serpent. Presently, however, raising his glance until he dimly outlined the waving heads of the reeds against the stars, he saw a reed bend slowly away, and then another, each one disappearing as though gently drawn down.
There could only be one solution to that mystery. The reeds must have been cut at their base, and then gently lowered, and whose work could this be but that of a human foe, patient and cunning? At once he cocked the trigger, and the sharp click woke Webster with a start.
“Ssh!” Hume hissed, while still keeping his eyes fixed on the reed tops.
The click of the gun and the noise of the waking man had been heard, for the movement stopped. The moments went slowly by, and for the one who was in ignorance the suspense was keen.
“What is it?” whispered Webster at last.
Hume bent over to reply. “I think we have been tracked. Waken Sirayo.”
Webster laid his hand on the chief’s blanket, and slowly drew it from his face.
He saw the gleam of the fierce eyes as the cold night air at once awakened the sleeper; then there was a deep-drawn sniff, and without a sound, the Zulu was sitting up.