Cubina shouted, first at a moderate pitch, then hallooed with all the strength of his lungs.
No answer, save the wood echoes.
Again and again: still no response.
“Crambo!” exclaimed he, suddenly thinking of a better means of making his presence known. “He may hear my horn! He may remember that, and know it. If he’s anywhere within a mile, I’ll make him hear it.”
The Maroon raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, loud blast—then another, and another.
There was a response to that signal; but not such as the young Englishman might have been expected to make. Three shrill bugle blasts, borne back upon the breeze, seemed the echoes of his own.
But the Maroon knew they were not. On hearing them, he let the horn drop to his side, and stood in an attitude to listen.
Another—this time a single wind—came from the direction of the former.
“Three and one,” muttered the Maroon; “it’s Quaco. He needn’t have sounded the last, for I could tell his tongue from a thousand. He’s on his way back from Savanna-la-Mer—though I didn’t expect him to return so soon. So much the better—I may want him.”
On finishing the muttered soliloquy, the Maroon captain stood as if considering.