“They are heading right for the island at the mouth of the Shire!” exclaimed Hughes, all the spirit of the old shikaree reviving at the sight.
“Something must have terrified them,” said Dom Assevédo; “perhaps the jungle has been fired in their rear.”
“There they go—one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven, all on the island,” counted Hughes.
Dona Isabel had stood, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the strange scene, a beautiful statue, the very model of mute astonishment.
“If they don’t break out and take to the other bank, I can show you some sport, now,” exclaimed Assevédo.
A few minutes of breathless watching followed, not a word being spoken, while the spiral wreaths of smoke curled up into the calm air from Dom Francisco’s cigarette. All eyes were fixed on the island. Five minutes elapsed, lengthening into ten, and the elephants had not reappeared.
“Do any of you gentlemen speak Kaffir?” inquired Assevédo.
“I do,” replied Wyzinski; “at least the Zulu tongue.”
“Good; then do me the favour to go to the men on the river bank. Tell them you come from me, use my name, and let them get their boats together, and join us in our hunt. Senhor de Maxara, will you order your men to get your boat ready?”
“Surely you will take me with you?” asked Isabel.