But his chief was very sad to-night.
He cared not for the guide’s stories or conversation, nor would he partake of the fragrant yerba-maté.
All was silence and gloom for a time, but as it grew darker the forest seemed to suddenly awake to life—though a weird wild life it was. The low grumbling growl of the prowling jaguar, the strange medley of notes produced by flying or crawling insects, the plaintive wailings of the night-birds, and now and then these howlings and shriekings from the darkest depths of the woods that make one’s spine feel like ice to listen to, and cause the superstitious Indians themselves to place their fingers in their ears and cease for a time to talk.
“The señor is very sad to-night,” said Samaro.
“Very sad, my friend. Very sad.”
“And I too mourn the loss of your poor dark friend.”
“He has been with me so long, Samaro.”
“And he has come through so much, señor.”
“And was always so loving and faithful, Samaro.”
What Samaro was going to reply will never be known, for at that moment a wild and frightened yell burst from the lungs of the Indian servants. Something black had leapt over their heads.