Then, as he looked around this horrible dungeon, at the crawling shapes of the serpents gliding hither and thither, hissing with rage over their late disturbance, as he breathed the unspeakably noisome atmosphere, he realised his own utter helplessness. What if anything untoward should occur to prevent his comrades from rescuing him? Life was full of surprises. They might be attacked by a party of Kafirs, brought back there by the missing Hlangani, for instance. What if he had merely exchanged places with his unfortunate kinsman and were to be left there in the darkness and horror? How long would he be able to keep his reason? Hardly longer than the other, he feared. And the perspiration streamed from every pore, as he began to realise what the miserable maniac had undergone. A silence had succeeded to the tumult above. What did it mean? Every second seemed an hour. Then, with a start of unspeakable relief, he heard Hoste's voice above. "Ready to come up, old chap?" "Very much so. Why have you taken so long?" he asked anxiously. "We had to tie up poor Tom twice, you know; first with the big _reim_, then with others. Then we had to undo the big _reim_ again. Here it is," chucking it over. Eustace slipped the noose under his armpits, and, having given the word to haul away, a very few moments saw him among them all again. The mad man was securely bound and even gagged, only his feet being loosened sufficiently to enable him to take short steps. So they started on their return track, longing with a greater longing than words can tell, to breathe the open air, to behold the light of day again. To their astonishment the poor lunatic became quite tractable. As long as Eustace talked to him, he was quiet enough and walked among the rest as directed. One more repellent ordeal had to be gone through--the serpents' den, to wit. This they had now almost reached. Suddenly a warning cry went up from Josane, who recoiled a step. "_Au! Kangela_!" ["Look there!"] A face was peering at them from over a rock slab a few feet overhead. A black face, with glazing eyes and half-parted lips, and such a scowl of hate upon the distorted features, in the darkness, as was perfectly devilish. Quickly every weapon was aimed at the head and as quickly lowered. For they realised that it was the head of a dead man. "Why, it's Hlangani! Let's see where we pinked him," said Shelton, climbing up to the ledge, followed by Hoste. "By Jove! he's plugged himself where we plugged him," he went on. "That accounts for his leaving no blood spoor."