It was the sound of a human voice raised in a sort of chant, ghostly and mournful as the sound of the falling dew. As it came, rising and falling, monotonous and rhythmical, the very plain song of desolation, Adams felt his hair lift and his flesh crawl, till one of the porters, springing erect from his crouching position, sent his voice through the trees—
“Ahi ahee!”
The song ceased; and then, a moment later, faint and wavering, and like the voice of a seagull, came the reply—
“Ahi aheee!”
“Man,” said the porter, turning white eyeballs and glinting teeth over his shoulder at Adams.
He called again, and again came the reply.
“Quick,” said Adams, seizing the arm of Berselius, who had risen, “there’s a native here somewhere about; he may guide us out of this infernal place; follow me, and for God’s sake keep close.”
Holding Berselius by the arm, and motioning the other native to follow, he seized the porter by the shoulder and pushed him forward. The man knew what was required and obeyed, advancing, calling, and listening by turns, till, at last, catching the true direction of the sound he went rapidly, Berselius and Adams following close behind. Sometimes they were half up to the knees in boggy patches, fighting their way through leaves that struck them like great wet hands; sometimes the call in the distance seemed farther away, and they held their pace, they held their breath, they clung to each other, listening, till, now, by some trick of the trees, though they had not moved and though there was no wind, the cry came nearer.
“Ahi, ahee!”
Then, at last, a dim red glow shone through the foliage before them and bursting their way through the leaves they broke into an open space where, alone, by a small fire of dry branches and brushwood, sat a native, stark naked, except for a scrap of dingy loincloth, and looking like a black gnome, a faun of this horrible place, and the very concretion of its desolation and death.