“Yes, we are near; aren’t we, sir?”
“Very near, Pete.”
“Can you make out anything more about what is burning?”
“Yes—the Residency.”
“That’s bad, sir. Thought we was to retreat to there when things got too hot at the orspittle.”
Archie had been raising the boughs that concealed them as they drew nearer the upper landing-place, dropping very slowly along, their progress being checked by the manipulation of the boat’s grapnel under Pahan’s clever management, for he controlled the rate at which they were carried downward on the swift stream by using the rough little anchor as a drag.
As far as could be made out in the moonlight, the river was quite clear of boats, and, to their surprise, they glided on into utter silence, while not a moving figure could be made out.
Archie had, in a whisper, given such information to his companion as he could, and attributing the position to their still being at a considerable distance from the scene of the conflict, he had crushed down in his own breast the feeling of dread that the worst had occurred. He had just come to this conclusion when Peter made a horrible suggestion.
“Mister Archie,” he whispered, “ain’t it all very quiet?”
“Yes. Perhaps the enemy is waiting for broad daylight, to make another attack.”