“We have that, old fellow,” was Frank Jamieson’s hearty reply. “Our escape has been little short of a miracle.” Then after a pause he said, “But I fear our friends will have mourned for us as dead.”
“I’m afraid so,” rejoined Tom. “I only hope that Wilson hasn’t written to the pater, and reported me ‘killed in action;’ it might be the death of my poor mother to hear such news, in her delicate state of health. When do you think we shall reach Cradock?”
“That, of course, depends a great deal upon circumstances,” Frank answered; “but, barring accidents, I think we may fairly reckon on being there by this day week at the latest. You see, Tom, now we’re able to travel during the day, we shall get over the ground much more rapidly.”
“How far is Cradock from Ralfontein?” queried his friend.
“As the crow flies, something over a hundred miles; but the track, though a good one, is rather—halloa! what’s that noise?”
Frank’s attention was attracted by a rumbling sound, which might be likened to that made by a heavy slow train passing over a bridge just within earshot; a sound which grew louder every second, and was presently mingled with horrible shouts and yells that echoed and re-echoed through the valley.
“I know what that noise is!” exclaimed Tom, seizing the gun and springing to his feet.
“Caffres! we’re lost,” ejaculated Frank Jamieson, his face paling; “we’re lost, Tom!”
But Frank quickly recovered himself, and casting a glance around in the hope of discovering some hiding-place, his eyes rested upon a hollow—or small cave—in the cliff almost immediately over their heads, and about eight or nine feet above the path.
“There’s our chance! let us take refuge in that hole,” said he, catching Tom by the arm. “I’ll help you up first and hand you the gun and assegais; then you can haul me after you. Up you go, there’s not a moment to lose!”