A man, even a colored one, might look long into that inclosure and, unless he caught the sudden smolder at the back of their eyes, never tell where they were.  Indeed, the inclosure was in pitch-darkness itself, by reason of its high “tin” walls; and even when a weird yellow moon came and hung itself up to add to the general uncanniness of the scene, the prison of the king’s son showed only like a well of ink.

Suddenly the silence and the voices of the crickets were broken into by the sound of scramblings by night.  A nightjar fled from the tree overhead to the accompaniment of strange noises; and an unseen jackal, who had crept up to the very huts pessimistically, in search of anything awful, or offal, fled with a startled scurry.  Apparently something with claws was trying to scrape away the corrugated iron.

Came then a scrawling scrape, and a thump.  Then silence.  But after a bit the noises began again—­a fresh lot, and more violent.  The pariah dog, who had come to investigate with his tail in the air, went away again, and quickly, with his tail between his legs; and in the same moment the king’s son’s head appeared over the top of the corrugated iron wall in silhouette against the staring, surprised moon.

Of course, and quite naturally, every sentry was asleep, or else even they could not have failed to realize that the sounds of desperate scratchings that followed were no ordinary phenomena, and might bear looking into.

Presently the king’s son’s body followed his head, and he sat for a moment, balancing clumsily on that narrow top, before vanishing suddenly, to the accompaniment of a heavy thump that was the last sound he made in the place.

Further and even more frantic scratchings followed, and anon the king’s daughter, who certainly meant to die rather than be left alone in the hands of the foe, eclipsed the moon.  A pause, and she, too, vanished downwards with a thump that was the last sound she made there in that place also.

A minute later, and she had joined her brother under the thorny guard of a mimosa.

For a moment or two the pair stood rigid as rock carvings, looking back, crouched a little, and deadly silent.  Then the king’s son turned and led the way to the river at a loping trot, and his sister followed in his tracks.  They shook the dust—­literally and daintily as a cat shakes dew from her feet—­of the hated captors’ fastness from their feet in little momentary halts as they went, and the place knew them no more.

But there is one point I should like to insert here.  Go and try to climb over a corrugated iron wall nine feet high, and with nothing but the bare earth to take off from, and see how you succeed.  Further, when doing it, remember that these royal children were so young as to be little more than babies.  Then you may tell how they accomplished the feat.  I do not know exactly to this day.