“Is that you, Simkin, that’s breathin’ like a grampus?” asked Molloy, after a long pause.
“I was just goin’ to ask you to stop snorin’,” retorted the soldier.
“Hush! There’s a shot!”
It was indeed a distant shot, followed immediately by several more. Then a rattle of musketry followed—nearer at hand.
Instantly, as if the earth had just given birth to them, the host of dusky warriors sprang up with yells of surprise and defiance, and, spear in hand, rushed in the direction of the firing. For a few minutes the listeners in the cellar heard as it had been a mighty torrent surging past the ruined hut. Gradually the force of the rush began to abate, while the yells and firing became more distant; at last all sounds ceased, and the listeners were again oppressed by the beating on the drums of their ears.
“They’re all gone—every mother’s son,” said Molloy at last, breaking the oppressive silence.
“That’s so,” said Rattling Bill; “up wi’ the trap, Miles. You’re under it, ain’t you? I’m suffocating in this hole.”
“I’m not under it. Molloy came down last,” said Miles.
“What if we can’t find it?” suggested Stevenson.
“Horrible!” said Moses, in a hoarse whisper, “and this may be a huge cavern, with miles of space around us, instead of a small cellar!”