Even as he finished there came a shrill cry from the shore, followed by the wild beat of the war-drum, and next by the sound of paddling.
"Shall we make a bolt for it?" asked Compton.
"Not yet," said the hunter; and he brought the Okapi stem on for the deep shadows under the bank.
The oars moved softly, covered by the noise of the paddling, and the Okapi slipped out of the reflection into the darkness, while the canoes dashed straight on, passing about one hundred yards behind her stem.
"Easy now," whispered Mr. Hume, "and keep quite still."
The oars were drawn in as the Okapi, caught in a current, was borne right into the bank at a spot where the trees came down to the brink. Mr. Hume caught a branch, and the stern swung round. Before them, about a quarter of a mile off perhaps, was the great fire they had first seen, still fed by natives, whose dark figures stood out and disappeared as they moved about. Out on the river they could hear the noise of paddles, and of men calling to each other.
Near them on the bank something moved, and above the swishing of the current they heard the low whine of an animal.
Mr. Hume pricked his ears at the sound, and crept into the well, where the boys sat anxiously watching.
"Put on your coats," he muttered.
Again there came the whine, then the sound of an animal scrambling, and next the patter of feet.