would be time enough to attempt the restoration of the poor clouded
brain, when they should have conveyed him safe home again. It was a
curious thing that necessity should oblige his rescuers to bring him
back bound as though a prisoner.

Their camp--rather their halting place, for caution would preclude the
possibility of building a fire--had been decided upon in a small bushy
hollow, a kind of eyrie which would enable them to keep a wide look out
upon the river-valley for many miles, while affording them a snug and
tolerably secure place of concealment. In front a lofty _krantz_ fell
sheer to a depth of at least two hundred feet. Behind, their retreat
was shut in by a line of bush-grown rocks. It was going to be a wet and
comfortless night. The storm was drawing nearer and nearer, and they
would soon be soaked to the skin, their waterproof wraps having been
left with the horses. Food, too, was none too plentiful--indeed, beyond
some biscuit and a scrap or two of cold meat, they had none. But these
were mere trivial incidents to such practised campaigners. They had
succeeded in their quest--they had rescued a friend and comrade from a
fate ten thousand-fold more hideous than the most fearful form of death;
moreover, as Hoste had remarked, the light of day alone, even when seen
through streaming showers, was glorious when compared with the utter
gloom of that awful cave and the heaving, hissing, revolting masses of
its serpent denizens. On the whole they felt anything but down-hearted.

"I tell you what it is, Hoste," said Shelton, seizing the moment when
Eustace happened to be beyond earshot. "There have been a good many
nasty things said and hinted about Milne of late; but I should just like
to see any one of the fellows who have said them do what he did.
Heavens! The cool nerve he showed in deliberately going down into that
horrible hole with the chances about even between being strangled by
poor Tom there, or bitten by a puff-adder, was one of the finest things
I ever saw in my life. It's quite enough to give the lie to all these
infernal reports, and I'll take care that it does, too."

"Rather. But between you and me and Josane there, who can't understand
us," answered Hoste, lowering his voice instinctively, "it's my private
opinion that poor Milne has no particular call to shout `Hurrah' over
the upshot of our expedition. Eh? Sort of Enoch Arden business, don't
you know. Likely to prove inconven