A loud yell arose now, for the lights showed Oliver standing on the brink, and, lowering their spears, a dozen savages rushed at him, but he stepped off the rock edge, descended quickly for some distance, and then plunged into the rushing water, which seemed to rise at him, seize him, and bear him along at a rapidly increasing rate, but with his head above the surface, and the echoing roar of falling waters striking his ears with stunning violence. Then he felt himself suddenly shot out as it were into space, suffocated by the rushing torrent, which poured down upon him, and faint, bewildered, and exhausted, whirled round, and beaten down here and there. At last his face was above the surface, and he was being borne rapidly along a shallow stream, just as Wriggs had described, with its smooth, glassy bottom.
Hope sprang up within his breast once more, for he could breathe again at such times as he could get his head above the rapids; what was more, he could fight for his life against an enemy more merciful than the cascade over which he had been dashed.
But it was a terrible struggle for breath in the darkness of the vast tunnel through which he was being hurried, and though from time to time he touched smooth, water-worn rock, he could get no hold.
At length, after how long he could not tell, he became conscious that the now swift, smooth stream was growing shallower, and recalling the sailor’s words, after many efforts he managed to gain and retain his feet, wading onward, and sufficiently recovered to listen for the sound of pursuit, of which there was none.
The noise, too, was dying out. There was a deep, murmuring roar, and the low, whispering rush, but that was all.
And now the confusion in Oliver’s brain seemed to clear off. His efforts to preserve life so far had been instinctive; from this moment there was more method. He began as he groped along to make use of the gun to which he still clung, as a staff, but he had not taken many steps onward in the way the water pressed and which he knew must be toward daylight when self was forgotten, and the thought of his comrades made him feel ready to sink helplessly once more and let the stream carry him where it would.
Panton—Drew—the two rough sailors who had been such faithful companions—the rest of the crew? Was he the only survivor?
“Ahoy–y–y–y–y!”
A long-drawn, hollow, echoing hail came from a distance out of the darkness, and it was repeated again and again, before he could command himself and reply. For his throat seemed to be contracted—relief—joy—gratitude to Heaven, combined to make him, in his weak exhausted state, hysterical, and his answering shout was feeble in the extreme.
But it was heard, and another hail came, which he answered with more vigour, and the knowledge that help was not far away nerved him to fresh efforts. These were encouraged by hail after hail, hoarse, hollow, and terrible, as they were repeated, till all at once a voice sent a thrill of delight through him, for he recognised it, and its words,—