Afterwards, the little Bushman, who crouched over the fire, sat up suddenly, listening.
“Ha! what is that?” he said.
A Bushman is like a dog: his ear is so fine he knows a jackal’s tread from a wild dog’s.
“I heard nothing,” said the navvy.
“I heard,” said the Hottentot; “but it was only a cony on the rocks.”
“No cony, no cony,” said the Bushman; “see, what is that there moving in the shade round the point?”
“Nothing, you idiot!” said the navvy. “Finish your meat; we must start now.”
There were two roads to the homestead. One went along the open plain, and was by far the shortest; but you might be seen half a mile off. The other ran along the river bank, where there were rocks, and holes, and willow trees to hide among. And all down the river bank ran a little figure.
The river was swollen by the storm full to its banks, and the willow trees dipped their half-drowned branches into its water. Wherever there was a gap between them, you could see it flow, red and muddy, with the stumps upon it. But the little figure ran on and on; never looking, never thinking; panting, panting! There, where the rocks were the thickest; there, where on the open space the moonlight shone; there, where the prickly pears were tangled, and the rocks cast shadows, on it ran; the little hands clinched, the little heart beating, the eyes fixed always ahead.
It was not far to run now. Only the narrow path between the high rocks and the river.