“He can’t see me,” thought Nic. “It is too dark.”
Then his heart seemed to stand still again, as the horrible thought occurred that the rustling meant getting something out of a pocket, and that something must be a pistol.
Instinct taught the listener that to save his life he must spring at his enemy before he could take aim, and, nerving himself for a leap forward to dash the musket he held upon the man’s face, he was almost in the act of bounding across the room when there was a low gurgling sound, and his nerves and muscles relaxed, for he realised the fact—the overseer had awoke suddenly from some nightmare-like dream, and it was no pistol he had taken out, but a flask of spirits.
It was plain enough now—the gurgling of the flask, the smack of the lips in the darkness, and the long, satisfied breath taken, before the bottle was replaced and its owner sank back upon his couch.
In another minute the breathing had grown deeper and sounded stertorous; and, without pausing longer, Nic stepped to the window, handed out the gun, and felt it taken quickly from his hands.
Just then there was a faint muttering which almost paralysed Nic, who turned to meet an attack; but none came, and in another instant or two he had slipped out of the window and was following Pete, who had handed back one gun, with the warning to beware of the dogs.
Pete’s stooping figure was just visible as Nic followed, him in silence till they were about a hundred yards away, making for the spot where the boat was hidden, when one of the dogs barked loudly.
“Mustn’t stop to load,” whispered Pete. “Let’s get to the water, and then they can’t take up the scent.”
They hurried on, listening the while; but the dog quieted down again; and with his spirits rising, Nic closed up alongside of his companion.
“That was a near touch, master,” whispered Pete. “I waited ready to jump in and help you, for I zomehow thought it was too dark in there for him to zee you, and you hadn’t made any noise. Lucky for him he lay down again.”