The summit seemed quite flat and level as far as they could judge, for
the night had now fully set in. But at the side of it on which they
stood the great cock's-comb ridge rose high in the air, the loom of its
precipitous sides sheering up against the starry zenith, showing
indistinct and shadowy in the darkness. The night wind, cool and
refreshing, sang in tuneful puffs through the grasses, and aloft in the
gold-spangled sky the Southern Cross and many a flashing constellation
glowed forth with that clear incandescence never so vivid as when gazed
upon from desert solitudes.
"We can do nothing until the moon rises," pronounced Renshaw. "There
are some lively krantzes around here, I reckon, and it would never do to
take a five-hundred foot header, for want of a little patience. We'll
make for the foot of the ridge, and lie by until the moon gets up."
Proceeding cautiously, he led the way up the slope which culminated in
the precipitous cliffs of the ridge. He was close under the latter,
when his horse suddenly swerved aside, snuffing the air.
"What is it, old horse?" he murmured soothingly, reining in, and peering
eagerly into the gloom. Was there a deep cleft in front--or did the
rocks shelter a lurking enemy? Both these speculations flashed through
his mind, as he whispered back a caution to his companion.
But the horse didn't seem inclined to stand still either. He gently
sidled away at an angle, and his rider, curious to fathom the mystery,
let him have his head. A few steps more and they were right under the
cliff. Then something flashed in the starlight. The horse came to a
standstill--down went his head, and a long continuous gurgle told of the
nature of his find. He drank in the grateful fluid as if he was never
going to stop.
"Well done, old horse!" said his master, dismounting to investigate this
inexpressibly welcome phenomenon. It was a deep cleft in the rock about
six feet long by three wide, full to the brim of delicious water, in
which a great festoon of maidenhair fern trailing from above, was
daintily dripping. "Sellon, this is a find, and no mistake. We'll camp
down here, and wait for the moon."
"And won't we have a jolly good sluice in the morning. We'll fill that
goat-skin of ours, and pour it over each other. I believe it's a week
since I had a good wash--not since we left the river. The fellow who
laid down the axiom that you're never thoroughly comfortable until
you're thoroughly dirty must have been born in a pigsty himself. I know
that for the last few days I've been wondering whether I've been looking
a greater brute than I felt--or the other way about. Hooray for a good
sluice to-morrow, anyhow."
Both were too excited to sleep. Even the consolation of tobacco they
denied themselves lest the glimmer of a spark of light should betray
their whereabouts to hostile eyes. And they were on short commons, too;
the death of the packhorse and the necessity of jettisoning a portion of
his load having narrowed down their stock of provisions to that which
was the most portable, viz. biltong and ship-biscuit; which comestibles,
as Renshaw declared, besides containing a vast amount of compressed
nutriment, had the additional advantage of being so hard that a very
little of them went a long way. So they lay under the cliffs munching
their ration of this very hard tack, and speculating eagerly over the
chances the next day might bring forth.
The night wore on. Save for the tuneful sighing of the wind in the
grass, no sound broke through the calm of that wild and elevated
solitude. Meteors and falling stars flashed ever and anon in the
spangled vault. A whole world seemed to slumber.
Soon Renshaw began to notice an incoherency in his companion's replies.
Fatigue versus excitement had carried the day. Sellon, who was of a
full-blooded habit, and uninured to such calls as had of late been made
upon his energies, had succumbed. He was fast asleep.
Left alone in the midst of a dead world, while the whole wilderness
slumbered around, Renshaw strove to attune his faculties to the
prevailing calm--to try and gain a few hours of much-needed jest. But
his nerves were strung to their utmost tension. The speculation of
years, the object of his thoughts sleeping and waking, were about to be
attained. Sleep utterly refused to visit him.
He could not even rest. At last he rose. Taking up his trusty double
gun--rifle and shot-barrel--he wandered forth from the fireless camp.
By the light of the burning stars he picked his way cautiously along the
base of the rocky ridge, keeping a careful eye in front of him, above,
around, everywhere. Yes, the object of years of anxious thought, of
more than one lonely and perilous expedition into the heart of these
arid and forbidding wilds, was within reach at last. It must be. Did
not that gruesome find down there in the gully point unmistakably to
that?
The cool night wind fanned his brow. All the influences of the dead,
solemn wilderness were upon him, and his thoughts reverted to another
object, but to one upon which he had schooled himself to think no more.
In vain. There on that lonely mountain-top at midnight, in his utter
solitude, the man's heart melted within him at the thought of his
hopeless love--at the recollection of that anguished face, that broken
voice pleading for his forgiveness; for his sympathy in her own dire
extremity. What was she doing at that moment, he idly speculated? Ah!
her regrets, her longings, her prayers were not for him, were all for
the other; for the man who shared his present undertaking, who slumbered
so peacefully but a few hundred yards away.
Why had he brought this man to Sunningdale, to steal away that which
should have been his? Why had he brought him here now, to enrich him in
order that nothing might be wanting to complete his own utter
self-sacrifice? He owed him nothing, for had he not twice paid the debt
in full? Why had he stepped between him and certain death? But for his
ready promptitude Maurice Sellon would now be almost as sad a relic of
humanity as that upon which they had gazed but a few hours back. But
the solemn eyes of the stars looking down upon him, the very grandeur of
the mountain solitude, seemed to chide him for such thoughts. What was
the puny fate of a few human beings compared with the immensity of ages
upon which those stars had looked down--the roll of centuries during
which those silent mountains had stood there ever the same?
A perceptible lightening suffused the velvety vault above. The horned
moon rose higher over the drear sea of peaks. The crags stood forth
silvery in the new-born light--and then, as his glance wandered
downwards, Renshaw felt every drop of blood flow back to his heart.
Far below shone a tiny glimmer--the glimmer of a mere spark. But withal
so powerful that it pierced the darkness of the far depths as the flash
of a ray of fire.
He stood as one turned to stone, holding his very breath. He rubbed his
eyes, and looked again. There it was still. Again he averted his gaze,
and again he looked. The distant spark was glittering more brilliantly
than ever. It seemed to gain in size and power as he looked. It held
him spellbound with its green incandescence flashing forth from the
darkness down there in the far depths.
He tore out the white lining of his soft hat, and bending down, nailed
it to the ground with his pocket knife. Then he walked away a few yards
and looked again. The spark had disappeared.
Feverishly he returned to the mark which he had set, now almost fearing
to look. He need not have feared. There shone the "Eye"--more dazzling
than ever.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maurice Sellon, sleeping the dreamless slumber of a thoroughly exhausted
man, started up with a smothered imprecation, as a hand gently shook him
by the shoulder. But his deadened faculties sprang into quick life at
the low impressive voice.
"At last! Come and look. The `Eye' is shining like a star."