At last, when Murray felt that he could bear no more, there was a faint rustle and a whisper to prove that the black had returned, to lay a hand upon his shoulder.
“Well,” whispered the lad excitedly, “have you found a way to get by them?”
“Caesar get by,” said the man sadly, “but big slabe, Murray Frank, Roberts, not get by.”
“Then what do you mean to do?”
“Try,” said the man. “Murray Frank ready?”
“Yes, ready for anything,” said the lad, springing up eagerly.
Caesar whispered a few words to his big fellow and as Murray strained his eyes he tried to make out the movements of the black when he caught hold of the midshipman, swung him round over his shoulder, and followed closely behind his leader and Murray, who now began to advance cautiously, hand in hand, pausing to listen from time to time, Caesar progressing more by thought than touch and evidently conscious that at any moment he might stumble upon those who were waiting ready to pounce upon him.
There were moments when hope began to illumine the lad’s path, for so silent did everything remain that it seemed as if the enemy must have changed his position; and in this hopeful mood he was about to whisper his belief to his companion when the path was brightened by a totally different illumination. For there was utter silence one moment, and the next, flash, flash, from musket after musket, and the enemy’s position was marked out by points of light as he concentrated his fire upon the cottage hidden amongst the trees.
This went on for a time without reply, and it now seemed to the midshipman that it must be the little party of his friends who had gone off. Then crack, crack, the reply began, and plainly mingled with the reports came the strange whistling whirr of bullets about their ears, in company with the crackling of cut-down leaves and twigs which now began to patter upon the earth.
“Come,” whispered the black.