For the third time the sound was repeated.
There was nothing strange in it—at least, to ears familiar with the voices of a Jamaica forest. It was the call of a common yet peculiar bird—the solitaire. The only thing strange was to hear it at that hour of the night. It was not the time when the soft and flute-like note of the solitaire should fall upon the ear of the forest wanderer. Hearing it at that hour was by no means strange to Chakra. It was not that which had startled him from his seat, and caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the platform. On the contrary, it was because he knew that what he had heard was not the note of the solitaire, but a counterfeit call from his confederate, Adam!
Chakra’s private slogan was different—more mournful and less musical. It was an imitation of that melancholy utterance heard at night from the sedgy shores of the dark lagoon—the cry of the wailing bittern.
With a small reed applied to his lips, the Coromantee produced an exact imitation of this cry, and then remained silent, awaiting the result.
At the bottom of the ravine could be heard a murmur of voices, as if several men were together, talking in guarded tones. Following this came a sound of scratching against the stones, and a rustling of branches, each moment becoming more distinct. Shortly after, the form of a man emerged out of the shadowy cleft, stepping cautiously upon the platform. Another followed, and another, until six in all stood upon the summit of the rock.
“Dat you, brodder Adam?” said Chakra, stepping forward to receive the first who presented himself at the head of the sloping path.
“Ya—ya! Am it Chakra?”
“Dat same ole nigga.”
“All right, kommarade. We’ve see yar signal as soon as it war hoisted. We wan’t long a comin’, war we?”
“Berry quick. A didn’t ’speck ye fo’ half an hour mo’.”