“Very well, then, I must whistle softly.”
He commenced a tune, and got through a few bare. Then he ceased as suddenly as he had begun, and began talking.
“I say it was very plucky of your father, wasn’t it? The boldness of the plan has made it do. The Indians could not even think we should make such an attempt.”
For a full hour the boys kept up that painful tramp up and down, Perry growing more and more silent, and Cyril bursting out from time to time with a little peal of forced laughter. Twice over, they were conscious of the presence of the watchful Indians creeping furtively among the trees; but the actions of the boys allayed their suspicions, and they went back as softly as they came.
“Was it never to end?” the lads asked themselves, and though neither made any allusion to their thoughts, they were tortured by fancies of what might have happened, till at last Perry was certain that, instead of the colonel and John Manning killing the two guides, these two men had turned upon them and stabbed them to the heart.
At last the boy could bear this thought no longer. He fought hard to keep it to himself, but it would have vent finally, and as they turned to continue their weary tramp, he suddenly caught Cyril fiercely by the arm.
“They won’t come back to us,” he whispered. “They cannot. Diego and the other man turned upon them, killed them, and those were their cries we heard. They’re both dead, Cil—they’re both dead.”
“And your father has come to tell us he has been killed,” said Cyril, with a forced laugh, which was more like a hoarse cry of agony. “At last,” he groaned: “I don’t think I could have borne it any longer.”
“What do you mean?” said Perry.
“There—by the fire. Here they come.”