“What is it, my lad?” cried the captain: “a jaguar?”
“Oh, no, sir; worse than that,” faltered the man, wiping the sweat from his face: “worser than that.”
“What did you see then? Was it a great serpent? Speak up, lad.”
“No, sir; I shouldn’t have been skeared o’ any serpent. It was a great big Injun who had a lot o’ greasy white snakes swinging about all round his head, and he’d got his club ready to hit me. Ever so big, he was.”
“That chap’s telling a big lie,” said Briscoe coolly,
“only he thinks he’s telling the truth. There couldn’t be any big Indian in there, and if there were he wouldn’t have a lot of greasy white snakes hanging about his head. I’m going in to see for myself. Coming with me, Brace?”
“Yes,” was the reply, and, holding their pieces ready while their companions crowded round the narrow entrance, the pair stepped boldly but cautiously into the opening.
They found themselves descending rugged stair after stair, encumbered with dead branches of creeper which cracked and snapped under their feet at every moment, till they were about five feet below the level of the terrace, with some dozens of greeny-white darkness-grown creeper strands swinging to and fro from above, and just in front of them they could dimly see, standing with uplifted menacing arm, what seemed to be a hideously grotesque half-human half-animal figure, apparently blocking the way.
“How are you, old chap?” said Briscoe quietly, staring at the figure. “Long time since you’ve had any visitors, eh?”