Malcolm handed the shining thing up to him.
"Diamonds!" exclaimed the older man, with a gasp; "the bottle was filled with 'em!"
Most of its contents had fallen back into the shaft. Gifford slipped the stone into his mouth and made a spring for the rope. He slid down it sailor fashion, and one of the blacks followed him. Malcolm hastened to the edge. There they were, on their hands and knees, searching the loose earth, beneath which showed clearly the heavy beams that protected the rest of King Obani's treasure.
They were picking things up, objects to right and left, as children do scattered sugar-plums.
Malcolm had about made up his mind to go down also, when suddenly he heard a weird call off in the woods. It reminded him of the "coo-ee" of the Australian bushmen. It was evidently the sound of a human voice. Another answered it. The black man who had staid on the surface with old Grumpah and himself gave a startled look around, and without a word put off into the woods.
"Some one is coming," shouted Malcolm down the shaft.
Again the call was heard. This time those below heard it also.
"Hurry up! get us out!" shouted Gifford. "It's the Bangwalis. I know the cry."
Hurriedly he emptied the earth out of the basket, and, with Mr. McFee, stepped inside, holding fast to the rope. Malcolm took one handle and Grumpah the other. Slowly they turned the windlass that was supporting more than its usual weight. They had raised it perhaps ten feet or so when there was a sharp crack, and old Grumpah gave a groan. The handle on his side had broken. The old man, who had been straining forward with all his strength, slipped his footing and plunged headlong into the pit.
The weight now was more than Malcolm's arms could stand, and do his best he could not help the windlass slipping from his grasp. Down went the basket.