“No, no, I cannot stay behind. Let me get the lantern,” she said feverishly, and quickly unhitched the lantern from its hook under the canvas “scherm,” at the same time picking up her rifle.
“This way,” said Webster, and they descended rapidly the slope leading to the river, from which there came a rippling noise strangely mysterious in the dark. The shaft of light swept around from left to right over rocks and ant-hills, and nodding bushes, and at every dark object they strained their eyes. Then there came a sound that chilled their blood: the noise of a body falling in the water, followed by a deep groan.
“Frank,” she cried; “Frank, where are you?”
The reply was unexpected and startling.
“He is dead,” said a voice, hollow and unnatural; “and so will perish all who try to find his secret.”
Miss Anstrade shuddered with horror, and clutched Webster by the arm.
“What is it?” she asked, in a thrilling tone.
With an answering shudder, Webster threw up his gun and fired in the direction of the voice. After the brilliant flash, the darkness closed in blacker than before, and when the echoes of the report had rolled away in the sullen mutterings down the valley the silence was the deeper. They waited long, then went on quickly to the river, where they stood above the rushes, looking at the gleam upon the dark water, and listening with pale faces and beating hearts to faint whisperings and gurgling noises. Webster put his hand to his mouth and called, but his voice broke in a hoarse whisper, and he called again. There was no answer but the wail of a jackal, and after that the far-off booming of a lion’s roar.
“It is horrible,” she whispered, looking round over her shoulder, and pressing closer.
“Let me take you back.”