“You’re going on all right, Nat,” he said, “and the wound will soon grow easier.”
The sun had passed over to the west, and was behind the cliff, leaving us well in shelter; the sound of the rushing water below sounded cool and pleasant, and I was lying back watching the wounded Indian—Carib, my uncle called him—when all at once there came a low howl from the thicket on the other side of the river.
“What’s that! One of the howling monkeys?” I said to uncle.
“No,” he said softly, and I saw him reach out his hand slowly for his gun. “Watch my patient.”
I turned my eyes to where the man lay, and saw that he had raised his head, and was gazing keenly in the direction whence the cry had come.
The next minute the howl was repeated, and it had hardly died out when it arose again, but this time from our prisoner, who placed his hands to his lips and sent forth a mournful cry.
Then it was answered from the other side, and the Carib turned excitedly to us, talking rapidly, but without our being able to comprehend a word.
One thing, though, was evident—the poor fellow was highly excited, and he smiled and chattered at us, before repeating the cry, which was again answered, and then a kind of duet was kept up, with the distance and time between the calls growing shorter minute by minute.
“This is all very well,” said Cross softly, “but he’s bringing on his Injun mates. You’ll tell us when to fire, sir?”
“Yes, if there is any need,” said my uncle. “Be ready; that is all.”