When he felt his horse's feet slipping from beneath him over the brink,
Claverton expected nothing less than instant death. Yet in that
terrible moment the whole picture was imprinted on his brain--the fierce
foes rushing on, assegai uplifted; the terrified, rolling eye of his
trembling steed; the sunlit sward; the green, monotonous sweep of bush
in the valley far below, into which he was being hurled; even a thin
line of blue smoke, which might be from a friendly camp miles and miles
away in the bush, did not escape him. And side by side with the picture
spread before and around him, in every minutest detail, came the thought
of Lilian--what she would say when she came to hear of his end, and
whether, from the spirit-world, he would be allowed to look once more on
that tenderly-loved face, and, above all, whether he would ever be able
to carry out his vengeance upon the man who had brought him to this.
All passed like a lightning gleam across his brain, and then he felt
himself falling--falling--down into space. The air roared and shrieked
in his ears, his breath failed him, then his hands seized something.
The whole world was hanging in his grasp, rocking and swaying; he could
not leave go; it was dragging him downward--downward--downward--it was
tearing his arms out by the sockets. He must throw it off; and yet he
could not. Then a crash, and--oblivion.
How long he lay he could not tell. Slowly and confusedly consciousness
began to reassert itself. He half opened his eyes, and quickly closed
them again. It was dark; there was a cold, earthy smell. Stars floated
before his vision, and indefinite shapes, with dull, far-away echoes.
He was dead, and they had buried him. He could hear the spadefuls of
earth being thrown upon his coffin. The sound was growing fainter and
fainter; they had nearly finished. And Lilian--she was standing weeping
over his grave. Ah, Lilian, it is too late to weep now! Yes, she was
weeping as if her heart would break, and the horrible weight of the
earth, with its cold, damp, mouldy smell, kept him down; he could not
reach her. Only seven feet of earth--oh, God! and it might as well be
seven hundred! Then he heard Truscott's voice--as the voice of a
smooth, insidious demon--whispering words of love to her, and claiming
the fulfilment of her promise. Fiend, traitor, murderer! He would
burst his grave now, and rend him limb from limb! Not the weight of a
thousand worlds could hold him down! And, with a mighty effort he
raised himself into a sitting posture and looked around.
A puff of cool air fanned his brow. It was dark--no, not quite. A beam
of light, shooting through from the outer world like a dart of flame,
dazzled his eyes; then another and another, losing themselves in the
further gloom. Is he not dead after all? How can that be? Yes, he is
dead, and this is the world of spirits.
Again he closes his eyes. A few moments more, and the suspended
faculties become clearer. He looks forth again. He is alive, and in a
cave, and the shafts of light are as much of that indispensable element
as can penetrate a thick mass of creepers which falls over its entrance.
But how came he there?
Instinctively, as he felt himself falling, Claverton had kicked his feet
free of the stirrups; and instinctively again, and without being aware
of it, he had clutched at the first substance which had come in his
way--a trailing ladder of creepers hanging from the rock--and this it
was which had made him feel as if he was supporting the whole weight of
the globe in his hands. But the jerk had been too great. For a
fraction of a second he thus hung, then fell--fell clean through a dense
network of creepers which closed over him with a spring, thus shutting
him into the cave, or rather hole, in which he awoke to find himself.
And now the spark of hope rekindled darts through his frame with an
electric thrill. He is still alive and unhurt, in the more serious
sense of the word, that is, for no bones are broken, though he is stiff
and sore and shaken by his fall. He will yet live--live to destroy his
enemy, and to possess himself once more of Lilian's love, free from the
possibility of any further disturbing influence. He looks round his
present quarters--truly an ark of refuge--but can make out nothing save
the shadowy rock overhead. Then, cautiously approaching the entrance,
he listens.
No; it will not do to look out just yet. The Kafirs are still beneath,
and he can hear distinctly the deep bass hum of their voices, can even
catch their exclamations of surprise at his unaccountable disappearance.
He is unaware of the exact position of his hiding-place, and the
faintest movement on his part might lead to his instant detection. So
he restrains his anxiety to peep forth, and, as he lies _perdu_, even
chuckles over the supernatural theories set forth by the Kafirs to
account for his disappearance.
For upwards of an hour he remains perfectly still; long after he has
heard the voices of his enemies grow fainter and fainter, and ultimately
cease to be audible as they give up the search. Then, thrusting his
head through the network of trailers, he peers cautiously out. The sun
has set, and a peaceful evening stillness lies upon the forest beneath,
and there is no sign of the enemy. Then Claverton begins seriously to
take account of his position. He cannot see the brink of the precipice
overhead, but he judges from its height further along, that he has
fallen about forty feet, and that the network of creepers, yielding to
his weight, alone had saved him from certain death. But, meanwhile, how
is he to get down, or up? One way is about as practicable as the other.
Beneath, the rock falls, with here and there a rugged pinnacle
projecting from its face, but sheer; while above, its surface for long
intervals is perfectly smooth. A terrible fear chills his heart. He
has only escaped from a sudden and swift death, to meet with a lingering
one by starvation; here, in this hideous, lonely cave, beyond the
possibility of human aid. A rope from the summit might reach him, but
was it in the least likely that any friendly patrol would visit this
wild fastness, haunted, as it was, by hostile bands? And even if it
did, how improbable that its members would have a rope, or be able to
improvise one long enough and strong enough to reach him; even were he
not too weak from the effects of starvation to use it if they did. No.
He must look for no succour that way.
Then his thoughts recur to the day that he and Lilian climbed up to that
other cave during the fishing picnic four years ago. But for the
inaccessibility of the place, some holiday party, in years to come,
might make their way up here and find his crumbling bones, and recoil
with loathing horror from his whitened skull, even as she had done from
the grisly remains in that other cavern. And the grey rocks stand forth
beneath and around, waxing greyer in the fading light; bright-eyed
conies peep forth from their holes, and scamper along the ledges; a
night-jar darts noiselessly on soft wing in pursuit of its prey; bats
flit and circle in the gloaming; beneath, the green bush has changed to
a sombre blackness; while floating upon the stillness of desolation, the
weird voices of the forest begin their mysterious concert. And there,
upon that narrow ledge, poised in mid-air, beyond the reach of all human
aid--lost, forgotten and alone--stands this man, with death before him
at last.
Carefully he looks over the ledge, narrowly scrutinising the rock
beneath and around; but the first glance convinces him that it is
useless. No creepers grow on the face of the cliff; even the tops of
the highest trees are at a dizzy distance below. There is no foothold,
even for a baboon. Ah! The cave itself! He has not explored that.
Re-entering, he strikes a match--a knife, a box of matches, and a bit of
_reimpje_ being the proverbial contents of a frontiersman's pockets,
even though they contain nothing else--and begins his exploration.
There is no outlet that way. Overhead the rock slopes down to the back
of the cave, and here and there it is wet with ooze. He can but dimly
make out the outlines in the gloom by the flicker of his wax vesta.
Suddenly the flame goes out, extinguished by a puff of cold air which
blows up into the explorer's face. He lights another. Yawning at his
very feet is a hole--a long, jagged hole, just wide enough to admit his
body; one step more and he would have fallen in. Tearing a bit of paper
from his pocket he lights it and throws it in. At first it will not
fall: quite a strong current of air holds it up. This, in itself is a
good sign, and Claverton begins to feel hopeful as he watches it sink,
down, down, lighting up the chasm, and throwing a wet gleam on the
slippery sides eloping down into unknown depths.
He sits down and begins to ponder over the situation. A strong current
such as comes up this hole betokens an outlet somewhere, and the only
way of finding that outlet is _to go down the hole_. He can get down,
for the sides are near enough together for a man to descend by using his
hands and knees freely. But once down, can he get up again? A natural
thrill of horror runs through him at the idea of burying himself away
down in the very bowels of the earth. To remain where he is means
death, but it is to die in the full, open light of day, with the air of
heaven breathing around him. To descend into that dark, slimy pit, and
perhaps find no outlet after all, and not even be able to retrace his
steps; to die in that frightful _oubliette_, amid who can tell what
noisome horrors! It is an alternative enough to appal the stoutest
heart, and no wonder Claverton's brain sickens at the thought. But it
is his only chance. He rises, goes out on the ledge once more, and
stands for a few moments drinking in the fresh cool breaths of the
fast-gathering night; then, returning to the chasm, begins his descent.
A lighted match in his hand, and with pieces of paper torn up in his
pocket ready to kindle at intervals, he lets himself down, working his
way cautiously with his knees against the opposite rock, but the task is
a far more difficult one than it appears. Once or twice he slips
several feet, and the skin is worn from his hands and knees in several
places. At length he stops; panting violently and nearly exhausted; and
as he holds himself wedged against the sides of the crevice to rest, it
strikes him that those sides are getting wider. By the light of another
match he looks down. Oh, horror! Two yards deeper--he has already
descended ten--and the chasm widens out to a breadth of at least twenty
feet. A cold perspiration breaks from every pore. Great beads stand
upon his forehead and his brain is on the whirl. It is frightful;
there, in the pitchy darkness. His blood curdles in every vein. His
strength can hold out no longer; in a moment he will yield, and
disappear for ever from the sight of humankind, immured, self-entombed
in the rocky heart of the earth. Rushing noises are in his ears, hands
touch him, wings sweep over him; then he slips, slides with the rapidity
of lightning; he is being torn in pieces, flayed alive. Then, with a
shock, his descent ceases. He is on his feet. But where?
During the fall he has retained consciousness, and now, as he opens his
eyes in the pitchy darkness, it seems that he can hear the sound of
running water. Is it, too, a delusion? No, there it is distinctly, a
mere runnel, but echoing with a cavernous boom through that grim
silence. And the sound is as the music of hope. The water must have an
outlet somewhere. Again Claverton lights a match. He is on
comparatively level ground, sloping away in the form of a conduit, down
which the water is trickling, while above, the rocks lose themselves in
gloomy distance. With a new-born joy at his heart, he follows the
course of this subterranean stream, guided by the sound of the water,
now falling headlong over a boulder, now knocking his head against the
roof, for he must husband his matches, as they are drawing near the end.
Oh, God! Will this awful, rayless night never cease--this thick
blackness, this horrible silence? His heart dies again within him as
the atmosphere becomes more and more heavy and oppressive.
Header, have you ever stood within a disused mine, or any other cavern,
artificial or natural, far beneath the surface of the earth? Have you
then extinguished your light and caused your companions to do the same,
keeping perfect silence for a few minutes? If you have you will
remember the intense longing that came over you for one spark of light,
the sound of a voice to break the frightful stillness, for one breath of
the upper air, so shut out do you seem from the rest of humankind even
as in the nethermost shades. What must be the feelings, then, of one to
whom it is probable that the light of day will never again be
vouchsafed?
Claverton puts out his hand. It encounters something cold and writhing.
With a thrill of shuddering horror he recoils, and his fingers shake--
he can hardly strike a match. At length he does so, and lo, by the red,
flickering light he can see two or three great, dark, hideous shapes,
whose multitudinous legs cling to the rock as the shining, creeping
things wind their lengths along. Oh, God--what is to be the end of
this? Will he go mad? Entombed in that pitchy darkness, with these
frightful creatures crawling around him--upon him. It happened that
Claverton had an exaggerated horror of anything creeping, and now in
this hell-pit, alone with those loathsome creatures, the man who has
just faced death with perfect calmness in two of its most appalling
forms--the spears of five hundred merciless foes in front, a giddy
height behind--trembles and shudders like a woman. For a dozen yards he
dashes forward as fast as his legs can carry him, and, coming violently
against the wall of the cavern, sinks down panting and breathless upon a
rock. Something falls into the water at his feet with a splash. Light!
Air! This den of darkness seems swarming with noisome reptiles. The
legs of some creeping thing pass swiftly across his cheek, and again he
shudders, and his heart throbs as if it would burst.
A faint rustle just above his ear. He looks up with a start, prepared
for fresh horrors. What does he see that causes the blood to course and
bound through his veins with such a wild thrill? It is a star. Yes, a
star--bright, beautiful, and twinkling--only one solitary star, piercing
the blackness of this frightful hell-cave, telling of light and air--the
free air of heaven--and--he dare not add--possible deliverance. A cool
breeze fans his brow, wafted through a crevice in the rock, and through
the crevice he can just see that one solitary star. Even if he must die
now he can still keep his gaze fixed upon that one shining eye of
heaven, looking in upon him from the outer air--the sweet, blessed outer
air. But no. That star is there to cheer him, to encourage him--not to
doom him. With hope rekindled he advances a few steps and lights a
match. It will hardly burn, so strong is the draught which blows in.
He continues his way. Every now and again he can see more stars through
the holes which become more frequent and larger, and he can see that he
is in a fissure which runs along beneath the face of the rock, and which
now begins to slant rapidly downwards. Everything is forgotten now;
deliverance is at hand; for a rush of wind, which can come through no
smaller an aperture than one wide enough to admit the body of a man,
blows up into the tunnel. Patience! Care! He can hear the rustle of
trees against the cliff on a level with his ear, and he guesses that he
must be near the base of the precipice. A slide of a few feet--a dozen
yards along a rocky ledge crawling on his hands and knees, the cavern
widens, and, with such a feeling of relief as he has seldom, if ever,
experienced before in the course of his life, Claverton steps forth from
his subterranean prison-house and stands looking out into the moonlit
valley, drinking in the fresh, cool night air in grateful draughts.
How delicious is that refreshing breeze after his terrible immurement!
How beautiful the silvery hue of the sprays of the unending bush,
sleeping beneath the stars, how soft their rustle as they quiver in the
night wind! A pointed moon hangs in the sky nearly at half, and the
Southern Cross rivals in its flashing brilliance the whole complement of
the rolling planets. Then comes a reaction, and Claverton begins to
feel stiff and battered, for he has been badly bruised in both his
falls, and his nerves have been sorely shaken by the events of the last
few hours; moreover, he has eaten next to nothing that day, and a
faintness begins to creep over him. The prostration of body extends to
his mind. What does it matter if he dies here alone in the wilderness?
he thinks. Lilian has cast him off; she could never really have loved
him. Better die and save all further trouble. In health such thoughts
would never have occurred to him; now--bruised, shaken, and prostrate--a
languorous feeling of fatality takes hold of his mind, and, shutting his
eyes, he sits down at the foot of the great cliff, and the cool air
plays upon his brow.
Ha! what is that? Cautiously he raises his head and listens. Is it a
patrol? Aid--succour? No; the tread is of light feet--naked feet. It
draws near, and Claverton has just time to step back within the gloom of
his late prison-house as a large band of warriors glides swiftly past,
and the moonlight gleams on the red, naked shoulders and on the
gun-barrels and assegai blades, as the savages flit silently like
spectres through the bush. They have not seen him, it is true, but can
it be that they are still hunting for him? In the morning they will
find his spoor, and then it will be the work of an hour or two to run
him down--enfeebled, nearly exhausted, and quite unarmed as he is; for
in his fall his belt broke and got lost, and with it his revolver and
sheath-knife. An unarmed and half-starved man, alone in an unknown
country, with bands of fierce savages quartering the forest like hounds
in his pursuit. What chance had he?
But whatever chance he has must not be thrown away. He will start at
once; yet not at once, for sound travels an enormous distance in the
bush at night, and it is indispensable that the party which has just
gone by shall be allowed sufficient time to get out of hearing. So he
waits and waits, till at last he can wait no longer. Emerging from his
shelter he glances at the stars, and, guided by those friendly lamps of
heaven, steps boldly forth into the bush.
"Never say die," he ejaculates, half aloud. "I shall live to talk over
this fix yet."
A low mocking laugh at his very elbow breaks the silence of the night.
Starting, as if he had been shot, he turns, and, as he does so, he is
violently seized from behind. With a spring he shakes himself free. A
dozen Kafirs are upon him, and their uplifted assegais flash in the
moonlight. A straight, neat hit from the shoulder, and the foremost
goes down like a ninepin; but they see that he is unarmed, and
fearlessly throw themselves upon him. A rapid struggle, a fall--and in
a moment Claverton is lying on the ground, securely bound and helpless
as a log.
"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the tall barbarian who had set his face against
the abandonment of the search. "The white man is a wizard. He can melt
into air, and then rise up again out of the earth, but we have been too
knowing for him this time. Ha--ha--ha!"
"Oh, damn you, do your worst, and the sooner the better," retorted the
prisoner, in a tone of weary, hopeless disgust.
"Ha!" jeered the savage. "Lenzimbi is a skilled wizard. He can
disappear into the solid rock. He can light his magic candle and walk
through the heart of the earth; but his God has quarrelled with him, and
has deserted him at last. Yes, Lenzimbi is a great wizard, a valiant
fighting man; but now _the black goat lives and the white goat dies_.
Ha!"