“Seen it,” was the laconic reply.
“What?”
“A cloud.”
“A cloud! Well?”
“Not much of a cloud, patron; no bigger than the spread skin of the cow-fish there; but it’s in the east, and therefore in the direction of Gran Pará. That means much.”
“What difference can it make in what direction it is?”
“Every difference! If from Gran Pará ’tis up the great river. Up the great river means rain,—perhaps thunder, lightning, a storm. A storm is just what we want.”
“O, now I see what you mean. Well?”
“I must go back to the mouth of the igarápe, and take another look at the sky. Have patience, patron, and pray for me to return with good news.” So saying, the tapuyo once again slipped down into the water, and swam towards the entrance of the arcade.
For a full half-hour was he absent; but long before his return the news he was to bring back had been told by signs that anticipated him. The moonbeams, hitherto seen striking here and there through the thinner screen of the foliage, had been growing dimmer and dimmer, until they were no longer discernible, and uniform darkness prevailed under the shadow of the trees. So dark had it become, that, when the swimmer returned to the ceiba, they were only warned of his approach by the slight plashing of his arms, and the next moment he was with them.