Away over a spur of the distant hills an arch of fire flamed into view, and silhouetted against its golden splendour were eight grotesque figures.
“Can you translate, professor?” cried Haverly; “these signs mean something or other, you can bet your boots.”
Garth and Wilson waited eagerly for the scientist’s answer. It came at length.
“Nordhu, son of Nordhu, will avenge his sire!”
“And that’s the message?” the engineer asked, as the blazing bow waned and died.
“That’s the translation,” returned Mervyn, abstractedly.
“Then I guess we must look out for trouble, and that right soon,” remarked Silas. “If this new Nordhu’s anything like the old man, he’ll be on our trail in less than no time.”
“We’re in a nice lively position to receive an attack of savages,” said Garth, “with the old Seal as helpless as a log.”
“I reckon we’ve come out of tighter corners than this yer,” retorted Silas, “though I allow I’d feel kinder easier if William and the Ayuti ’ud show up. You say they’ve gone to the city?”
“Yes,” returned Wilson, shortly.