CHAPTER VIII.
THE WILD-MAN AGAIN.
Meanwhile, where was Jack Tyrrel?
We left him at the moment when he turned round the point of rocks, following on the strange trail. A few rods beyond this, and he suddenly paused as a peculiar cry met his ear.
Hastily glancing up, a strange light met his gaze. A flash of recognition lit up his face. He had seen that form once before.
It was, indeed, none other than the occupant of the hill-cave, whom he had beheld fed like a child by the beautiful maiden; the one whom he had, a few hours later, seen shot at by Nate Upshur. The being called by Paul Chicot, the "Mountain Devil."
He stood at the base of a large bowlder, one hand outstretched, clutching his long bow already spoken of. His attitude, his face, his eyes, all told that he was angered.
"Back! rash fool!" he uttered in a deep, stern tone. "I warned you once—this is sacred ground. Back, I say, or you die!"
"Don't be so headstrong, old man," coolly returned Jack, seating himself upon a bowlder. "You have nothing to fear from us. When we finish our work, we intend leaving—and allow me to add that you nor any one else can make us stir one step before we get ready."