Glenarvan’s voice, hitherto firm, now faltered. He paused to control his emotion. After a moment’s silence, he said to the young captain:
“John, you have promised Mary Grant what I have promised Lady Helena. What have you resolved?”
“This promise,” replied John Mangles, “I believe I have the right in the sight of God to fulfill.”
“Yes, John; but we have no weapons.”
“Here is one,” answered John, displaying a poniard. “I snatched it from Kara-Tété’s hands when he fell at your feet. My lord, he of us who survives the other shall fulfill this vow.”
At these words a profound silence reigned in the hut. At last the major interrupted it by saying:
“My friends, reserve this extreme measure till the last moment. I am no advocate of what is irremediable.”
“I do not speak for ourselves,” replied Glenarvan. “We can brave death, whatever it may be. Ah, if we were alone! Twenty times already would I have urged you to make a sally and attack those wretches. But they—”
At this moment Captain Mangles raised the mat and counted twenty-five natives, who were watching at the door of their prison. A great fire had been kindled, which cast a dismal light over the irregular outlines of the pah. Some of these savages were stretched around the fire; and others, standing and motionless, were darkly defined against the bright curtain of flame.
It is said that, between the jailer who watches and the prisoner who wishes to escape, the chances are on the side of the latter. Indeed, the design of one is stronger than that of the other, for the first may forget that he is guarding, but the second cannot forget that he is guarded; the captive thinks oftener of escaping than his guardian thinks of preventing his escape. But here it was hate and vengeance that watched the prisoners, and not an indifferent jailer. They had not been bound, for bonds were useless where twenty-five men guarded the only outlet of the prison.
This hut was built against the rock that terminated the fortification, and was only accessible by a narrow passage that connected it with the front of the pah. The other two sides of the building were flanked by towering precipices, and stood on the verge of an abyss a hundred feet deep. A descent this way was therefore impossible. There was no chance of escaping in the rear, which was guarded by the enormous rock. The only exit was the door of the temple, and the Maoris defended the narrow passage that connected it with the pah. All escape was therefore out of the question; and Glenarvan, after examining the walls of his prison, was forced to acknowledge this disheartening fact.
Meantime, the hours of this night of anguish were passing away. Dense darkness had covered the mountain. Neither moon nor stars illumined the deep shades. A few gusts of wind swept along the side of the pah. The stakes of the hut groaned, the fire of the natives suddenly revived at this passing draught, and the flames cast rapid flashes into the temple, illumining for a moment the group of prisoners. These poor people were absorbed with their last thoughts; a deathly silence reigned in the hut.
It must have been about four o’clock in the morning, when the major’s attention was attracted by a slight sound that seemed to come from behind the rear stakes, in the back wall that lay towards the rock. At first he was indifferent to the noise, but finding that it continued, he listened. At last, puzzled by its persistence, he put his ear close to the ground to hear better. It seemed as if someone was scraping and digging outside.
When he was certain of this fact, he passed quietly towards Glenarvan and the captain, and led them to the rear of the hut.
“Listen,” said he, in a low voice, motioning to them to bend down.
The scrapings became more and more audible. They could hear the little stones grate under the pressure of a sharp instrument and fall down outside.
“Some creature in its burrow,” said Captain Mangles.
Glenarvan, with bewildered gaze, stood astonished.
“Who knows,” said he, “but that it is a man?”
“Man or animal,” replied the major, “I will know what is going on.”
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all began to dig in the wall, the captain with his poniard, the others with stones pulled out of the ground, or with their nails, while Mulready, stretched on the earth, watched the group of natives through the loophole of the mat. But they were motionless around the fire, and did not suspect what was transpiring twenty paces from them.
The soil was loose and crumbling, and lay upon a bed of clay, so that, in spite of the want of tools, the hole rapidly enlarged. It was soon evident that somebody, clinging to the sides of the pah, was making a passage in its outer wall. What could be the object? Did he know of the existence of the prisoners, or could a mere chance attempt at escape explain the work that seemed nearly completed?
The captives redoubled their efforts. Their lacerated fingers bled, but still they dug on. After half an hour’s labor, the hole they were drilling had reached a depth of three feet. They could perceive by the sounds, which were now more distinct, that only a thin layer of earth prevented immediate communication.
A few moments more elapsed, when suddenly the major drew back his hand, which was cut by a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry that was about to escape him. Captain Mangles, holding out his poniard, avoided the knife that was moving out of the ground, but seized the hand that held it. It was the hand of a woman or a youth, a European hand. Not a word had been uttered on either side. There was plainly
