From the river bank came the croaking of frogs, tree-toads sounded among the growth of vegetation; in the blackness where stood the trees, flitted fireflies, and occasionally a glow-worm crawled along the ground. They were startled now and then by a faint splash in the river and made ready for an attack, but as nothing followed, they concluded that a fish had risen and in diving again had flipped the water with its tail—a sound they would not have ordinarily noticed, but which seemed loud to their sense of hearing, more acute than usual because of the nerve strain under which they rested.
After a time that seemed to him interminable Harvey whispered to Hope-Jones, “I wonder if anything has happened to the captain. Has he not been gone longer than he expected?”
The Englishman looked at his watch. The moonlight was so bright that he could distinctly see the dial and the hands.
“No, he has been absent only an hour,” was the reply.
From the woods came the hoot of an owl. A few minutes later a low growl was heard in the distance.
“That’s a puma,” said Ferguson. “If it should come this way we would have to fire, and then those redskins would be attracted.”
But it did not come near them, nor did the growl sound again. The owl continued to hoot dismally, and the call of a night bird was also heard. Of a sudden Hope-Jones exclaimed “Sh!” and pushed his rifle through the opening at the side of the river.
A dry branch had crackled. His warning was followed by a voice outside the camp, saying in low tones, “It’s I, boys,” and the next second the captain had rejoined them. He was considerably out of breath, and they noticed that his clothing was more torn than when he had left the camp.
“It’s pretty tough work crawling nearly a mile on the hands and knees,” he finally found voice to say. “But I saw them and had a good view, lying on a rock that overlooked their camp. I was so close that I could have picked off a half dozen with my revolver.”
“Are they Ayulis?” asked Ferguson.