“Don't let it rattle,” said Don breathlessly, “I'm positive I heard footsteps. And here, take this,” thrusting the cutlass into Jack's disengaged hand. “Now, come on!”
Barely had he uttered the words when a hollow, prolonged blast, like that of a gigantic trumpet with a cold in its throat, filled the chamber with deafening clamour. And as the echoes leapt from wall to wall, and buffeted each other into silence, another sound succeeded them, faint and far away, but swelling momentarily into ominous loudness and nearness.
Don clutched his companion's arm.
“The fellow I knocked on the head—he's come to!” he said thickly. “That was the blast of his conch; and this”—pausing with uplifted hand and bated breath until that other sound broke clearly on their ears—“this is the tread of heaven only knows how many native feet. Jack, we're discovered!”
CHAPTER XVIII.—BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
Four galleries centred on the rock-chamber, and the confused, tumultuous rush of feet which followed the blast of the conch-shell like an ominous echo, proceeded from that particular gallery opposite the vestibule.
“Seems to be a rare lot of them; but we needn't stop to reckon 'em up,” said Jack, with a constrained laugh. “Lead the way, old fellow.”
Into the smaller chamber they dashed, to find the exit blocked by the sentinel with sword drawn. Rapidly reversing his musket, Don bore down upon him—he, to do him justice, standing his ground bravely,—and with the butt-end of the weapon dealt the nigger a blow in the stomach that doubled him up like a broken bulrush.