“What good will it do to talk to him?” replied Wilson, in the same cautious whisper. “It is very evident from his actions that he can’t talk English; and, besides, if there were any other way to get out, it isn’t likely that he would have brought us here. I’d show a little pluck, if I were you. Come on.”
“But what if that soldier should awake and spring up just as I was about to step over him?” continued Chase, in an ecstasy of alarm. “He’d catch me, sure.”
“He will catch you if you stay there—you may depend upon that.”
Chase might still have continued to argue the point, had not the actions of the guide aroused him to a full sense of his situation. The man, who had been beckoning vehemently to him, suddenly faced about, and tapping Wilson on the shoulder, started down the steps that led from the verandah to the ground. Then Chase saw that he must follow or remain a prisoner in the house. He started and passed the sleeping sentinel in safety; but his mind was in such a whirl of excitement and terror that to save his life he could not have told how he did it. When he came to himself he and Wilson were following close at the heels of their guide, who was leading the way at a rapid run along the lane that led to the negro quarters.
“I wish I had never seen or heard of the Sportsman’s Club,” panted Chase, drawing his handkerchief across his forehead, for the exciting ordeal through which he had just passed, had brought the cold perspiration from every pore of his body; “I never was in a scrape like this before, and if I once get out of it you’ll never see me in another. Fred Craven can take care of himself now; I am going home.”
“When are you going to start?” asked Wilson.
“Just as soon as I reach the village.”
“How are you going?”
“I don’t know, and what’s more, I don’t care. I’ll float there on a plank before I’ll stay here twenty-four hours longer. There’s another sentry. He’s awake too, and coming toward us. Which way shall we run now?”