The room was about ten feet square, its roof opened to the sky, the walls covered with the shining leaves and twisted tendrils of the wild vine.
“What is the matter?” asked Hume, struggling wildly to free his hands.
“Heaven knows!” muttered Webster, staring helplessly at his bonds.
“And to be bound like this!” cried Hume, in fierce and bitter despair. “Sirayo, what do you say?”
There were beads of sweat on the chief’s forehead, for his bruised arm had been torn from the sling and tightly bound, while his fingers trembled with the pain.
“It is true, we have been bewitched,” he said hoarsely, “for I felt no one touch me, even though they bound my wounded arm.”
“Laura, are you also bound?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Webster struggled to free himself, then rolled over until with his fingers he could touch her cold hand.
“This is awful,” muttered Hume. “Can’t you see any spoor?”