It was some hours before he ventured to slip to the ground. Even then he did not dare to leave the shelter of the wood, knowing that in the open he would inevitably be observed. But he stretched his limbs and found a few blackberries, which somewhat appeased his hunger. Every now and then he again climbed the tree to find out whether any one was approaching, or whether a watch was still being kept. Late in the afternoon he descried, on the further side of the village, a horseman approaching from the direction of the hills. He came at full gallop, and rode straight into the village, disappearing there from Tom’s view.
“Hope to goodness he isn’t a messenger from the sheikh!” thought Tom.
At last, when the sun had set, and the sky was darkening, he deemed it safe to leave his hiding-place. If the yacht had remained where he had last seen her—and it was scarcely likely that Mr. Greatorex would shift his anchorage—he conjectured that a five mile walk would bring him to the nearest point of the shore. Fortunately it was a beautiful night, clear and starlit, though the moon had not yet risen. Taking his bearings very carefully by the stars, in anticipation of a return journey, he started, going very slowly and cautiously, watching every shadow lest it should indicate the presence of a Moor. Ignorant of their language, he knew well that he had no chance whatever of slipping past if he were once accosted. In such a case he could trust only to his lightness of foot. But nothing happened to cause him uneasiness, and after trudging along for nearly two hours he was beyond measure delighted to see what was evidently a masthead light some distance out at sea. No native craft would show a light; he could hardly doubt that the Dandy Dinmont and his friends were before him.
He was quickening his step in the pleasure of this discovery, when suddenly, without warning, he found himself at the edge of an encampment lying in a slight hollow at the summit of the cliffs. He started back, but it was too late. A Moor, swathed in his hooded djellab, came out of the darkness and spoke to him. Tom saw that it might be fatal to run now; he walked on, hoping that he might pass without replying. But the Moor spoke again, more sharply, in a more questioning tone. Tom, whose head was covered with the hood, mumbled something beneath his breath; but his unpractised tongue could not achieve the hard guttural accent of the Moorish speech, and the sentinel took a hasty step towards him.
There was now nothing for it but to take to his heels. Disguise was no longer possible, and, to free his limbs, he cast the djellab from him, and dashed at full speed across the grass to the edge of the cliff. The slope was steep, but he scarcely gave a thought to the risks he ran. Scrambling over, he lay down and rolled from top to bottom, with many a gash and bruise from sharp edges of the rock.
Loud shouts pursued him. The camp was aroused. Picking himself up, feeling breathless and dazed, he sped across the sandy stretch of beach and sent a sounding hail in the direction of the yacht; perchance his voice might carry above the rustle of the surf and the cries of his pursuers. He heard men scurrying down a path in the cliff somewhere behind him; then their footsteps on the light shingle that lay above the sand. Even if his cry had been heard on the yacht, it was impossible that a boat should reach him before he was overtaken. There was only one way to safety. He plunged into the surf, and struck out towards the vessel. A shot followed him, but he cared nothing for that; in the darkness it would puzzle an expert marksman to hit him, when nothing of him could be seen but a head bobbing up and down. Not till he had swum well out of the reach of his pursuers, who had not followed him into the sea, did the thought of sharks cross his mind. Then he trod water for a little, and, making a bell of his hands, sent another prolonged cry across the water.
Is that an answering hail? He shouts once more; yes, a cry comes back to him: “Ahoy-o!” But at the same moment he hears also the sound of paddles, to his right, apparently from a bend of the shore. The Moors have not given him up, then. Again he presses on, putting all his force into a strong side-stroke. Now another sound falls upon his ear; the welcome sound of oars plied sturdily in rowlocks. The yacht’s boat is coming to meet him. But the pursuers are the nearer—will his friends arrive in time? His long exertions since he left the yacht, his want of food and sleep, have robbed him of his strength. His pace becomes slower and slower. The pursuers’ boat is coming up behind, while yet the beat of oars before him sounds terribly distant. But he is still swimming; every yard he makes is a yard added to the speed of the friendly boat. He struggled on; and the Moors were still some distance behind when, gasping and spent, he was helped by Timothy and another into his ark of safety.
But the boat did not head at once for the yacht.
“Give way, men!” cried Captain Bodgers himself, at the tiller.
He pointed the nose of the boat straight for the Moors’ light craft. Eight sturdy British sailors pulled with a will. There was a crash, a cry, and a dozen Moors were in the water, struggling to right their capsized boat.