As the hunter hurriedly muttered these concluding phrases, he glided with stealthy tread between the two buttresses; and, having placed himself in the extreme angle of their convergence, remained perfectly still—as if to await the approach of some one who was advancing towards the tree.
Herbert, from his perch, had a full view of the new comer thus announced.
A young man of a copper red colour, with straight black hair, shaggily tossed and pulled over his forehead, as if some one had been tearing it from his head! His face, too—a fine one, notwithstanding its mahogany colour—appeared freshly lacerated; and his whole body bore the marks of inhuman abuse. The coarse cotton shirt that covered his shoulders was blotched with blood; and long, crimson-coloured stripes running across his back, looked like the imprints of an ensanguined lash!
The attitude in which he was advancing was as peculiar as his costume. When Herbert first set eyes on him he was crawling upon his hands and knees, yet going with considerable speed. This led to the belief that his bent position was assumed rather with a view towards concealment, than from the inability to walk erect.
This belief was soon after confirmed: for on entering the glade the young man rose to his feet, and trotted on—but still with body bent—towards the ceiba.
What could he want there?
Was he making for the huge tree as a haven of safety from some deadly pursuers? Herbert fancied so.
The hunter believed he was coming back for his gun—having no suspicion that the real owner of the piece was just over his head.
Both remained silent; though from motives having no similitude to each other.
In a few seconds’ time, the fugitive—for his actions proved him one—had reached the bottom of the tree.