“Dark enough, but she’s gone ahead safely enough.”

They stood for some time, and seemed to gather comfort from the touch of each other’s hands.

“I am ready now,” said Venning.

“That’s good.  Keep your eyes raised and your shoulder to the wall.  Forward!”

They crept rather than walked round that fearful gallery, traversing the unknown height with the roar of waters coming up from the unseen depth, and the silent wraiths of vapour making the darkness visible as they curled upwards to disappear into the vast vault.

“If I can only get safe out of this,” thought Venning at each step, “I will never try to leave the valley again by this way.”

The valley was only a few hundred yards away, but it seemed to him that he must have left it ages ago.  Every second had been charged with a new sensation since he left the brightness outside, and each slow, wary, suspicious movement he made had in it a whole sequence of fears.  Would he slip?  “Would his foot fall on firm rock?  Would something—­he knew not what—­grab him from out that awful pit?  Would some one or something—­he was sure there was something creeping behind—­would it spring on him?  Would that woman’s hand suddenly shoot out from some crevice and hurl the both of them headlong?  Was it never coming to an end?  And the rock was shaking worse than ever!  It would be easier to crawl!  Of course it would.  He went down on his hands and knees and laughed, because it was so easy.  There was something on his back, something that jogged about and hit him on the side of the head, that gripped him round the chest!  What was it?  He felt gingerly, and laughed again.  His carbine!  What was the use of a carbine there?  No good, of course.  What a joke to throw it down and hear the splash, or, better, to fire it off and hear the echoes!

“Venning!”

The boy chuckled as he sat on the ledge tugging at the buckle.

“Why, lad!”

The great hands closed on the boy, lifted him up, and bore him lightly as the man felt his way with his feet.  He counted his steps, assuring himself that before he came to seventy-five they would be at the end.

“Ngonyama!” cried a voice, quite close.

“We are coming, mother.”

“Ngonyama!  Ngonyama!  Ngonyama!” and the voice grew fainter.

“Wait—­wait, O mother of chiefs, for the way is dark, and we move slow.”

“Slower fast, slower fast, Ngonyama, it matters not.”

“It is far, mother!  Are we near the end?”

“Near the end—­very near!  Is it the dead ye carry, Ngonyama?”

“Nay, mother; the boy is but sick.  But where are you, that ye see and are not seen, that your voice is near and yet far?”

The woman laughed.  “So ye grow afraid, O great one?  Said I not,
Indhlovu, that this was not your path?  Death is around.”

Mr. Hume went forward steadily, counting his paces to keep his mind from wandering, and to his great joy he came suddenly on an opening in the wall which led towards welcome light, away from the horrors of that unfathomable pit.  The woman waited for him there, looking very tall against the light.