Dick, having put out the fire, turned on his side and was just about to speak to Katafa, when through the woods, from the direction of the eastern beach, came a sound, a long low rumble, suddenly beginning and suddenly ceasing, the sound of the anchor chain of the Morning Light running out.
Instantly he was on his feet.
Every sound of the island was known to him. This was something new, new as the voice of the conch that had roused him from sleep to face Laminai and his tribe.
“Did you hear?” said Dick.
“Yes,” said Katafa, “I heard.” She was standing close to him, her head thrown back, listening.
The moon in its first quarter had risen above the trees and a wan, rosy light fell on Dick, on Katafa, on the house beside which Nan leaned on his pole and within which could be dimly discovered the outline of the little ships.
Dick, as though fearful of listeners, raised his finger and then motioned to Katafa to follow him, leading the way towards the trees on the opposite side. He had not gone a dozen paces when, remembering his spear, he turned back for it and then, resuming the lead, plunged amongst the trees, keeping along the lagoon bank, the glitter of the water showing through the branches, and the green glow of the forest lighting them as they walked in single file and silent as Indians on the war path in a hostile country.
As they drew close to the eastern beach, a red spark of light showed through the leaves ahead. A fire was burning on the beach and as Dick parted the last branches and stood, Katafa beside him, the fire blazed up till the trunks of the coco-palms took the light.
A boat was beached near the fire, around which half a dozen dark, nearly naked men were busy cooking, whilst two white men, dressed as Kearney had been dressed, were seated on the sands, knees up and with a bottle before them. Some drinking nuts lay close to the man on the left.
Away out on the lagoon the Morning Light lay at her moorings, the ebb showing a silver streak where the chain met it and where it passed away astern.