He had hardly given life to that query, when a gentle check, as if the bows of the boat had run into mud, told that the shore was reached.
A few rapid orders succeeded, and it seemed to Chumbley that now they were about to land he would have his cramped legs unbound; but no. The next minute he was seized by four men, lifted out, and laid upon the soft, mossy ground.
“You there, Hilton?” he said, as he lay upon his side as helpless as a newly-landed fish.
“Yes, I am here,” was the reply.
“The English rajahs can talk as they like,” said the deep-voiced Malay. “No one can hear them now.”
“Humph! Thanks for the great concession,” growled Chumbley; and he was about to take advantage of the permission, when he felt himself again lifted, and laid this time in a kind of hammock that seemed to be slung upon poles, and then for a couple of hours at least, he and Hilton, who was in a similar conveyance behind, were borne along some narrow pathway of the jungle, the leaves, and strands, and thin verdant canes brushing against them constantly, and sweeping their faces at times when they were halted for the bearers to be changed.
“Well,” said Chumbley, chuckling softly, “I hope they are enjoying themselves with their job over me. They’ll declare that they have had the honour of carrying a very great man.”
A final halt at last, when fresh voices were heard. The hammocks were set down upon what seemed to be a framework; then they were lifted, tilted very much at one end, as if a flight of steps were being ascended, and at last the prisoners felt themselves to be landed upon what felt like a bamboo floor.
Next they were lifted out, carried a few steps, and laid upon soft matting; there was the pad, pad—pad, pad of shoeless feet over the floor, and all was perfectly still.