“I have eaten all I care for, Jem,” said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in.
“No,” said Jem, softly; “not there, Mas’ Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There’s quite a rough bit, and if we couldn’t climb it, I’m not here.”
“But what about your shoulder?”
“I’ll climb it with one hand, Mas’ Don, or know the reason why.”
“But the men on sentry?”
“Tchah! They think we’re all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I’ve been thinking it all over, and if you’re the same mind as me, off we go to-night.”
Don’s heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion’s arm, responded,—
“I am ready.”
“Then we’ll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it’s dark,” said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. “Let’s lie still just as the others do, and then, I’m sorry for ’em; but this here’s a case where we must help ourselves.”
Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears.