Suddenly Desmond fell with a dull thud. He had fainted under the excessive strain of the last few minutes. Colin could render him no assistance. His arms, being bound, prevented him, while, in point of fact, he was beginning to feel faint and dizzy himself.
"Perhaps it's as well," he soliloquised. "Tiny won't feel anything while he's like that. Wish I were in his state, too."
Desmond's collapse had no effect upon the natives. They looked on impassively, waiting for a sign from their Chief. The disc of the moon was lapping the shoulder of the idol.
A word of command, and the double line of torch-bearers held the torches behind them, throwing the centre of the cave into deep shadows. The six attendants stiffened themselves like beasts of prey about to spring upon their victims.
Before Umkomasi could utter the fatal orders there was a commotion in the armed ranks drawn up in the arena. Angrily the Chief looked in that direction to find the reason for the unwonted noise.
Colin turned and looked also. He could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes, for limping between the columns of warriors was a tall, bearded white man with a canvas haversack on his shoulder, calling peremptorily upon the name of Umkomasi.
With an effort Sinclair moistened his dry lips and raised his voice, shouting in a cracked high-pitched tone that he hardly recognised as his own:
"Van der Wyck!"
"Right-o, sonny," replied the Afrikander, briskly. "You'll be all right; leave it to me."
Umkomasi was on the horns of a dilemma. If he did not give the fatal order almost at once the sacrifice would be too late. He also seemed anxious to order Van der Wyck to be removed, yet he obviously feared the white man.