This proved to be the case, with the result that Dean went off to sleep instantly, while Mark kept dozing off and waking again with a start.
At last, tired of the uneasy feeling that troubled him, he crept out from the tail end of the waggon and stood looking about the enclosure, where all was still save the heavy breathing of one of the ponies or that of the bullocks.
“Phew!” sighed Mark. “What a hot night! Here, I know; I’ll go and see how the dad is getting on.”
A few steps took him to where he could see his father’s face, the glow from the fire throwing it up and flashing from his eyes.
“He is getting sunburnt,” thought the boy, and then, stepping out of the shadow cast by the waggon, he walked quickly towards the sentry of the night and began speaking aloud:
“Don’t shoot, father!”
“Why, Mark, my boy, what are you doing here? Have you heard anything?”
“No, father; but I couldn’t sleep. Have you?”
“I heard a lion once, with his deep barking roar, and there are several of those wretched jackals about. I am afraid we shall hear a good deal more of these noises out in the plain than we did close in the shelter of the forest. But don’t stop talking. Go back to sleep.”
“But I can’t sleep, father,” said the boy reproachfully.