There was something in the behaviour of the jacaré he did not like, especially when he saw it quartering the water as if in search of the creatures that had disappeared so mysteriously.
“Surely it won’t lie in wait for us?” was the first question put by his companion. “You don’t think it will?”
“I do, young master, I do. That is just what troubles the Mundurucú. He may keep us here for hours,—perhaps till the sun goes down.”
“That would be anything but pleasant,—perhaps more so to those who are waiting for us than to ourselves. What can we do?”
“Nothing at present. We must have patience, master.”
“For my part, I shall try,” replied the Paraense; “but it’s very provoking to be besieged in this fashion,—separated by only a few hundred yards from one’s friends, and yet unable to rejoin or communicate with them.”
“Ah! I wish the Curupira had him. I fear the brute is going to prove troublesome. The Mundurucú can read evil in his eye. Look! he has come to a stand. He sees us! No knowing now when he will grow tired of our company.”
“But has it sense enough for that?”
“Sense! Ah! cunning, master may call it, when he talks of the jacaré. Surely, young master, you know that,—you who are a Paraense born and bred? You must know that these reptiles will lie in wait for a whole week by a bathing-place, watching for a victim,—some helpless child, or even a grown man, who has been drinking too much cashaca. Ah yes! many’s the man the jacaré has closed his deadly jaws upon.”
“Well, I hope this one won’t have that opportunity with us. We mustn’t give it.”