“At all events, we are fortunate in falling in with this curious malocca, suspended between heaven and earth. Are we not so?”
“That depends on who they are that inhabit it. It may be that we’ve chanced upon a tribe of cannibals.”
“Cannibals! Do you think there are such in the Gapo?”
“There are savages in the Gapo who would torture before killing,—you, more especially, whose skins are white, remember, with bitterness, what first drove them to make their home in the midst of the water-forests,—the white slave-hunters. They have reason to remember it; for the cruel chase is still kept up. If this be a malocca of Muras, the sooner we get away, the safer. They would show you whites no mercy, and less than mercy to me, a red man like themselves. We Mundurucús are their deadliest enemies. Now, you lie still, and listen. Let me hear what they are saying. I know the Mura tongue. If I can catch a word it will be sufficient. Hush!”
Not long had they been listening, when the Indian started, an expression of anxiety suddenly overspreading his features, as his companion could perceive by the faint light of the distant fires.
“As I expected,” said he, “they are Muras. We must be gone, without a moment’s loss of time. It will be as much as we can do to paddle the log out of sight before day breaks. If we don’t succeed in doing so, we are all lost. Once seen, their canoes would be too quick for us. Back, back to the monguba!”