So they set to work, and never did Benita labour as it was her lot to do that day.  Such of the fragments as they could lift they carried between them, others they rolled along by help of the crowbar.  For hour after hour they toiled at their task.  Luckily for them, the passage was not more than three feet wide by six feet six high, and their material was ample.  Before the evening they had blocked it completely with a wall several feet in thickness, which wall they supported on the inside with lengths of the firewood lashed across to the old hinges and bolt-holes, or set obliquely against its face.

It was done, and they regarded their work with pride, although it seemed probable that they were building up their own tomb.  Because of its position at an angle of the passage, they knew that Meyer could not get to it with a pole to batter it down.  Also, there was no loose powder left, so his only chance would be to pull it to pieces with his hands, and this, they thought, might be beyond his power.  At least, should he attempt it, they would have ample warning.  Yet that day was not to pass without another trouble.

Just as they had rolled up and levered into place a long fragment of rock designed to prevent the ends of their supporting pieces of wood from slipping on the cement floor, Mr. Clifford uttered an exclamation, then said: 

“I have wrung my back badly.  Help me to the tent.  I must lie down.”

Slowly and with great pain they staggered up the cave, Mr. Clifford leaning on Benita and a stick, till, reaching the tent at last, he almost fell on to the blankets and remained there practically crippled.

Now began Benita’s terrible time, the worst of all her life.  Every hour her father became more ill.  Even before they took refuge in the cave he was completely broken down, and now after this accident he began to suffer very much.  His rheumatism or sciatica, or whatever it was, seemed to settle upon the hurt muscles of his back, causing him so much pain that he could scarcely sleep for ten minutes at a stretch.  Moreover, he would swallow but little of the rough food which was all Benita was able to prepare for him; nothing, indeed, except biscuit soaked in black coffee, which she boiled over a small fire made of wood that they had brought with them, and occasionally a little broth, tasteless stuff enough, for it was only the essence of biltong, or sun-dried flesh, flavoured with some salt.

Then there were two other terrors against she must fight, the darkness and the dread of Jacob Meyer.  Perhaps the darkness was the worse of them.  To live in that hideous gloom in which their single lamp, for she dared burn no more lest the oil should give out, seemed but as one star to the whole night, ah! who that had not endured it could know what it meant?  There the sick man, yonder the grinning skeletons, around the blackness and the silence, and beyond these again a miserable death, or Jacob Meyer.  But