This was not far to seek. Immediately beyond the bend the passage expanded into a sort of vestibule, communicating, by means of a lofty portal, with a spacious, well-lighted chamber. It was not this discovery, however, that riveted his gaze, but a dusky figure crouched on the floor of the vestibule—the figure of a native, reclining on a mat, with his back to the spot where Don stood. By his side lay a sword of curious workmanship, and a huge conch-shell, the pearly pink of its inner surface contrasting strangely with the native's coffee-coloured skin. The weapon and the shell told their own tale: the native was doing “sentry-go.”
Over what or whom? With swift glance Don scanned every nook and corner of the vestibule, and as much of the interior chamber as lay within range of his vision. So far as he could see both were empty, barring only the dusky sentinel. Then he fancied he heard the faint clanking of a chain, though from what direction the sound proceeded it was impossible to determine. Listening with bated breath, he heard it again, and now it seemed to come from the larger chamber. His pulses thrilled, and a determined light shone in his eyes as he turned them once more upon the sentinel.
“I'll jolly soon fix you, old chap,” he said to himself; and noiselessly clubbing the musket he carried, he prepared to advance.
But for the monkey's vigilance he must have come upon the recumbent guard without the slightest warning, for not more than ten paces separated the shoulder of rock—Don's post of observation—from the mat on which the native reclined.
To fire upon him was out of the question, since that would fulfil the very purpose for which he, with his conch-shell trumpet, was stationed there—namely, to send a thousand wild echoes hurtling through chamber and galleries, and so apprise his comrades of impending danger. Moreover, Don had a wholesome horror of bloodshed, which at most times effectually held his trigger finger in check.
A swift, sure blow—that would be the best means of keeping the native's lips from the nozzle of his conch-trumpet. A blow—ay, there was the-rub! For, though the native's back was towards-him, the space by which they two were divided must be crossed; and these walls, dumb as they looked, had hidden tongues, which would echo and re-echo the faintest sound. Could he, then, get near enough to strike?
Inch by inch he crept towards the unconscious sentinel, slowly raising the butt of the musket as he advanced. So intense was the suspense of those few brief moments that he hardly breathed. It seemed as if the very beating of his heart must reach the native's ears. Inch by inch, foot by foot, until——
