awake, and, observing that his guard is
not over watchful, proceeds to strain stealthily upon his bonds, which,
he has noticed, are not drawn quite so tight as usual. Gradually he
succeeds in loosening them to such an extent that eventually he is able
to free one hand. To free the other at once becomes easy, and, this
done, the prisoner very cautiously raises himself sufficiently to assure
himself that his captors are all soundly sleeping. Satisfied of this,
he rolls himself gently over and over, a few inches at a time, until he
is outside the circle of his captors, when he rises to his feet and with
infinite caution withdraws into the darkness, making for the nearest
clump of bush, which, upon reaching, he places between himself and the
faint glow of the dying camp fire. Hidden thus from his late captors,
should any of them chance to awake and miss him, he now walks rapidly
forward, constantly glancing over his shoulder in fear lest he should be
pursued; and in this manner he soon places a couple of miles between
himself and the sleeping peons. He believes that he is now returning
toward the camp over the ground which he has already traversed, and he
hastens onward as fast as the uneven nature of the ground will permit.
But the night is dark, the stars are obscured by heavy masses of
threatening rain-cloud; there is therefore no beacon by which he can
guide his footsteps, and, unsuspected by himself, he has gradually swung
round until he is heading south-east. And now the gathering storm
breaks, the rain falls heavily, and in a few minutes the unhappy
fugitive is drenched to the skin, and chilled to the marrow by the
fierce and bitter wind which comes swooping down from the snowfields and
glaciers of the higher Andes; yet he dares not take shelter from the
storm, even in the recesses of a clump of scrub, for he fears that by
dawn at the latest, his enemies will be on his track, and--forgetful or
ignorant of the fact that the storm will obliterate his trail from all
but dogs or experienced trackers--of which the peons have none--the
fugitive is madly anxious to put as many miles as possible between
himself and his pursuers. On he staggers, blindly and breathlessly,
whipped by the pelting rain, buffeted by the furious wind, half-fainting
already from exhaustion, yet spurred on by unreasoning terror--I think
that unless he is quickly rescued the Englishman will die."

Escombe shuddered and went white to the lips.