“Think it, patron! I am too sure of it. If not, we shall be in the best of good luck.”
“It’s of no use trying to-night, at all events,” pursued Trevannion, as he glanced uncertainly around him. “The moon is sinking over the tree-tops. Before we could well get adrift, she’ll be gone out of sight. We might only drift deeper into the maze. Is that your opinion, Munday?”
“It is, patron. We can do no good by leaving the place to-night. Wiser for us to wait for the light of the sun.”
“Let all go to rest, then,” commanded the patron, “and be ready for work in the morning. We need keep no lookout, I should think. The galatea is as safe here as if moored in a dry dock. She is aground, I take it, upon the limb of a tree! Ha! ha! ha!”
The thought of such a situation for a sailing craft—moored amid the tops of a tall tree—was of so ludicrous a nature as to elicit a peal of laughter from the patron, which was echoed by the rest of the crew, the Mundurucú alone excepted. His countenance still preserved its expression of uneasiness; and long after the others had sunk into unconscious sleep, he sat upon the stem of the galatea, gazing out into the gloom, with glances that betokened serious apprehension.
Chapter Seven.
The Gapo.
The young Paraense had given a correct, although not sufficiently explicit, account of the sort of place in which the galatea had gone “aground.”