Chapter Twenty Four.
“Don’t shoot, Father!”
“Why, we are as snug here as can be,” said Dean.
“Should be,” said Mark, “if it wasn’t for that fire.”
For the night set in dark—a night which would have been of intense blackness but for the brilliant points of light that shone down like effulgent jewels spread upon a sky of the deepest purple dye.
But it was light enough within the enclosure formed by the perpendicular patch of granite rock, the two waggons, and the dense mass of thorny faggots which had been gathered and built up so as to hedge them in.
A goodly portion of the fourth opening into the little kraal was filled up by the large fire which was burning for the protection of the bullocks and ponies, and thoroughly lit up the camping place, but in return for its protection extorted the suffering from the heat, not only in front but reflected down from the rocks behind.
“Yes,” said Dean, “it is rather a roaster. Couldn’t we let it out now?”