There was a crackle of undergrowth far below, then a sound as of men splashing through the river which ran high and swollen; but Dane was short of ammunition, and did not consider it advisable to fire blindly into the mist. He felt himself quivering with suspense. Staring down the steep face of the bluff, he waited, ready to drive a bullet through the head of the first assailant who rose out of the vapor. Then the noise ceased altogether, and the ensuing silence became maddening. How long this lasted Dane could never tell, but he grew cold and hot by turns as he waited, until a sound that was wholly unexpected became faintly audible. It was not the rustle made by the passage of a stealthy foe, but more resembled the approach of men marching in some order. While the blood pulsed within him he saw that the camp boys glanced from him to the vapor under the influence of an overwhelming excitement. But though the sound came nearer, the mist, which was thicker than ever, still hid all below, until a negro's head rose out of it, and Dane saw that he carried a hammock pole. Then a wild shout went up, and Monday's yell rang through all the rest:
"Cappy Maxwell lib!"
There was an end of all discipline. Weapons went down clattering, and famishing men, who during many weary days had vainly scanned the forest, poured out through the stockade gate and raced madly down the slope to welcome those who had brought them the long expected help. For a moment Dane stood stupidly still, almost too dazed to realize what had come about, vacantly wondering how Maxwell had forced a passage without firing a shot. Then the contagion seized him and, leaping down from the stockade, he followed the rest. His perceptions were yet clouded by a bewildering sense of relief, but it struck him that the hammock-bearers came on in an ominous silence. When he reached them, Amadu looked at him curiously, as though he would have spoken, but, brushing past, Dane tore the wet matting aside.
Then he stepped suddenly backward, breathless and aghast. Maxwell lay huddled in a limp heap upon the drenched canvas, almost unrecognizable. His face was distorted and shrunken, his jacket reddened in patches, and his lips were cracked and black. His eyes had grown dim and glassy, and when he spoke his very voice seemed changed.
"Have I altered so much that you don't know me, comrade?"
"You have brought us our lives, Carsluith, but God knows I would rather have stayed on here forever than to see you come like this," said Dane.
Maxwell moved a little, and there was the ghost of a smile in his half-dosed eyes.
"I really couldn't help it. I hardly think I shall trouble you long. A bushman back in the forest shot me."
"Don't!" Dane answered hoarsely. "It can't be so bad as that. I won't believe it!"
Maxwell let his hand fall into his comrade's palm as though to convince him.