He pressed my hand hard and led me through the wide opening into what seemed to be a blacker darkness, which did not, however, trouble him, for he stepped out boldly, and then I heard a muttering growl which I recognised directly.
“Hush, Jimmy!” I whispered, throwing myself upon my knees. “Don’t speak.”
“Jimmy not a go to speak um,” he said softly. “Mass Joe come a top.”
“Go,” said my companion. “Go quick. I want to help—I—the fever—my head—help.”
There was another pause, and on stretching out my hand I found that my guide was pressing his to his forehead once again.
“He has lived this savage life so long that he cannot think,” I felt as, taking his hand, I led him to the opening, through which he passed in silence, and with Jimmy walking close behind he led us between a couple more huts, and then for a good hour between tall trees so close together that we threaded our way with difficulty.
My companion did not speak, and at last the silence grew so painful that I asked him how long it would be before daybreak.
“Hush!” he said. “Listen! They have found out.”
He finished in an excited way, repeating hastily some native words before stooping to listen, when, to my dismay, plainly enough in the silence of the night came the angry murmur of voices, and this probably meant pursuit—perhaps capture, and then death.