“Whisht, sor. I couldn’t help it. I haven’t been meself since I took the masther’s rat poison.”
“You didn’t, Tim. Father told me. You drank too much wine.”
“Murther! Masther Frank. Why, so it was. It did get right into me legs.”
“Silence!” whispered Mr Braine, sternly. “Ready with your arms.”
He raised his revolver as he spoke, for the men who had disappeared had returned strengthened, and began to search eagerly about. Then one of them uttered a cry, pointed, and, levelling their weapons, they came on.
“Stand back!” roared Mr Braine, in their tongue; and he fired a shot over their heads.
This checked them for a minute, and they drew back behind the bushes to begin throwing spears, but the missiles only struck against the rocks at the side of the rift, and finding their efforts vain, they paused for a few moments. A few words ran from bush to bush, and Mr Braine whispered a warning, “Be ready;” and directly after, the more ominous word, “Fire!”
It was time, for the Malays dashed forward, kris in hand, but from out of the cave a scattered volley of revolver shots greeted them so warmly that two dropped, and the others fell back, followed by their wounded companions.
“A moment’s respite,” said Mr Braine. “Reload. We can beat them off.”
A moment’s respite, but not a minute’s, for there was a wild shriek from the interior of the cave, and a chill ran through Ned. He had recalled the entrance to the place through which he had slipped, and he turned just as there was a rush, a burst of yells from within, answered by others from without, as the Malays again came on.