The sun set in a gloomy sky to-night, and the moon failed to show. This was no disadvantage. Our sentry was set, and beside him the two dogs kept watch and ward. We lay down armed all in the dark, Jill and I side by side, on our couches of leaves. I think Ritchie began to tell a story, and I set myself to listen, but exhausted Nature would assert herself, and I was soon hard and fast asleep. Nor did I waken till broad daylight was streaming in at the mouth of the cave.
Another day went slowly past, without any alteration in the wind, and without our friend the foe appearing.
About sundown Jill bantered Ritchie about the Pacific and Atlantic fighting for mastery, and the frequent changes in the wind; but Ritchie took it very good-naturedly.
“It is evident,” Jill said, “the Atlantic has it all its own way this time, Ritchie.”
Night fell again, as dark and wild as ever. About ten o’clock, just as we were thinking of settling, one of the dogs uttered a low and ominous growl, but was at once muzzled by the sentry’s hand.
A canoe had suddenly glided into the little creek or river’s mouth, but it passed on. Another and another followed, till we had counted seven in all; but from the constant jabbering they kept up it was evident they had not observed us.
“That makes the fleet,” whispered Ritchie. “Seven is a magic number with many savages.”
About an hour after, Ritchie stole quietly out of the little fort. He soon returned and asked me to come. I obeyed. Jill wanted to accompany me, but I forbade him.
We stole quietly up the river, keeping well in under the shade of the trees, and ere long saw the light of a fire glimmering through the bush ahead. We crept on still more silently now, careful not even to snap a twig.
We reached high ground just a little way above the clearing, and gradually drew near the glimmering light. Then Ritchie cautiously lifted a branch of evergreen.