The Inche Maida was either away, or else she had taken such deadly offence that she was determined to see her prisoners no more for the present, until they were in a better frame of mind as regarded her wishes.
The slaves who attended upon them were ready to obey their slightest wishes, running eagerly to fetch coffee or fruit, or a kind of sherbet which was very pleasant to drink during the heat of the day.
But there was, with all the attention, a strict watch kept, Chumbley noticing that there was always an ostentatious display of force as if to show the prisoners that it was hopeless to attempt to escape.
Armed men sat about outside the door, and from the window the prisoners could see other armed men sitting about chewing betel, or practising throwing the limbing—the javelin with a blade of razor keenness—which they hurled with such unerring aim that the least skilful would have been certain to strike a man at thirty yards.
But all the same, the hearts of the prisoners were set upon scheming their escape; and they sat and smoked, and made their calculations as to how it was to be compassed.
“I’m sorry I was so rough with the poor woman,” said Hilton one evening, as they sat by the open window sipping their coffee, and gazing at the rich orange glow in the sky above the dark green foliage of the trees.
“Well, you were pretty rough upon her for displaying a remarkable feminine weakness in your favour,” replied Chumbley.
“Well, rough or no, I’m tired of this,” said Hilton. “It is evident that Harley is making no effort to find us out.”
“Perhaps he is, but can’t find the place. I’ve been trying hard to make out where we are.”
“So have I, but I’m puzzled. One thing is evident; we are a long way from the river.”