“Nor thunder so loud,” cried Jack. “It is terrible. Hush! hark at that!”
“Water, sir, running down this way.”
“Shan’t be washed away from here, shall we, Ned?”
“No, sir, I think not. Seems to me that it’s coming down that bit of a ditch we crawled up.”
It was: the dry, stony bed having been filled in a few minutes six feet deep by a raging torrent, which was constantly being augmented by scores of furious rills, the upper portions of the mountain having been struck by what resembled a swirling water-spout.
“I say, Mr Jack, I hope the yacht won’t get washed away. Which side of that stony ditch were the niggers when you saw ’em last?”
“The other side.”
“Then they won’t come this. Now if they’d only take to thinking that we’d been washed down the side and out to sea, what a blessing it would be for us! They wouldn’t come and hunt for us any more.”
“Don’t—pray don’t talk,” cried Jack. Then to himself,—“Oh, if the storm would only keep on.”
But, as has been shown, it did not. Its violence on their side of the mountain was soon exhausted, and it swept on and out to sea, leaving the fugitives standing where hundreds of rills came amongst the foot of the trees on their way toward the stream overflowing the stony channel, while the leaves and boughs poured down a constant shower of heavy drops.