“Do not go far away!” said Clara, entreatingly, still troubled with the fear of the jaguars.
“Bah!” exclaimed Costal, “I leave my gun with you!”
“Oh, indeed!” murmured the negro; “what signifies that? one bullet for four tigers!”
Without vouchsafing any reply to this last speech, the Indian advanced a little farther along the bank, and then came to a pause. A large tree grew upon the edge of the stream, its branches extending outwards. Into this he climbed; and then stretching out his arms over the water, he commenced chaunting a lugubrious measure—a species of Indian invocation, of which Clara could hear the words, but without in the least comprehending their signification.
There was something in the wild melody of the Indian’s voice to cause his companion a certain mysterious dread; and this was increased by additional notes of an equally mournful character that came pealing up the ravine, mingling with the hoarse roaring of the cascade. It was the scream of the jaguar; though it actually appeared as if some demon was answering to the invocations of the Indian. The lugubrious chaunt of the pagan, and the coincident scream of the tiger, formed a kind of infernal accompaniment, well calculated to strike awe into the mind of one of Clara’s superstitious race; and as he stood upon the bank he fancied he saw fiery eyes glaring upon him through the leaves, and the Siren with the dishevelled hair rising above the surface of the water.
A double chill passed through his black skin, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his kinky hair.
At this moment Costal returned to him.
“Are you ready?” inquired the Indian.
“For what?”
“To accompany me to the cascade—there to invoke the Siren, and ask if she may be seen.”