“Sure it’s meself that’s the most silent.”
“Abel!—Bart! This way!”
“To the left, lad,” cried Bart, for they had now reached the edge of the jungle; and just as despair was filling their breasts, for Mary made no sign, her voice proved her fidelity by its being heard some distance to their left.
“Thin it’s all right,” said Dinny, excitedly. “Ye’ve got friends waiting?”
“Silence, I say!” cried Abel.
“Sure, and I’ll hold my pace, and good luck to ye, for I heard the boy’s spache, and maybe he has a boat waiting down by the wather.”
“Will you be silent, man?” cried Abel, fiercely, as the baying of the dogs increased. “Bart, we must not go on, for it would be bringing the dogs upon someone else.”
“Not it,” said Dinny; “ye’ve plenty of time yet, maybe. Go along, me boys, and bad luck to the dogs, for they’ll be disappointed afther all!”
Abel gave a low, peculiar whistle like a sea-bird’s cry, and it was answered not twenty yards away.
“Here, quick!” came in the well-known voice; “I’m here. Jump; never mind the mud!”