“Hear that, sir?” whispered Peter again. “Our chaps?”
“No—Malays.”
Chapter Forty.
“What About Victuals?”
For a few minutes it seemed as if the success that had attended them was to be completely dashed, though it had become evident that, by a wonderful stroke of good fortune, they had dropped the grapnel of the boat so that they were swinging nearly opposite to the part of the river-bank which had been their goal. For then Fate, which had been filling their breasts with hope, seemed to have withdrawn from them behind a darker cloud than ever.
The voices were so near that they dared not whisper or stir, only wait in the full expectation of being seen and welcomed with a shower of spears; but by degrees the talking ceased, and the silence was so profound that it became evident that the enemy, whatever had been their object in coming there, had silently crept away.
“Do you really think they have gone, sir?” whispered Peter.
“I feel sure of it,” was the reply.