Chapter Twenty.
In Shadowy Land.
For quite a quarter of an hour we remained motionless—the watcher and the watched—Tom and I both well armed, and involuntarily our guns were pointed at the eyes; but the position was not one which justified firing. The ravine was as free to the owner of those eyes as to ourselves, and, after all, we had no proof that this was an enemy.
I was in doubt as to our next proceeding, and had just come to the conclusion that our most sensible plan would be to turn back without going near the cavern at all, and so try to throw the enemy off the scent, for I felt certain that whether I discovered a treasure or no, I was on the right track, when Tom whispered eagerly to me:
“Let’s show him that we know how to use our guns, Mas’r Harry. We won’t shoot him, but only give him a start. Look at that: there’s a poll-parrot—two of ’em—settled in the tree above him! It’s a long shot, but I think I could bring one down; so here goes!”
Tom levelled his piece and the next instant would have fired, when the parroquets began chattering, screaming, and fighting together, fluttering down towards the bushes which concealed our watcher. Then there was a rush, a crashing of the undergrowth, and the owner of the eyes—a good-sized deer—bounded into sight for an instant, and then disappeared in a series of spring leaps, which soon took it out of sight in the dense growth.
“I am, blessed!” exclaimed Tom, in accents of the most profound disgust. “If I’d known, wouldn’t I have fired, that’s all! Had some venison to take back, Mas’r Harry.”
“I’m very glad you did not, Tom,” I said.