“Ah!” said he, sadly, all his superstition reviving, “the voice of the owl at this moment seems to me to announce no good fortune to us.”
“The imitation is perfect, I allow,” said Bois-Rose, “but you must not be thus deceived. It is an Indian sentinel who calls to his companions either to warn them to be watchful, or what is more like their diabolical spirit, to remind us that they are watching us. It is a kind of death-song with which they wish to regale us.”
As he spoke, the same sound was repeated from the opposite bank with different modulations, confirming his words, but it sounded none the less terrible as it revealed all the perils and ambushes hidden by the darkness of the night.
“I have a great mind to call to them to roar more like tigers that they are.”
“Do not; it would only enable them to know our exact position.”
So saying, the Canadian entered the water with extreme care, while his comrades followed his movements with anxious eyes.
“Well,” said Pepé, when Bois-Rose came to the surface to take breath, “are we firmly fixed?”
“All is well, I think,” replied Bois-Rose, “I see at present but one thing that keeps the islet at anchor. Have patience a while.”
“Take care not to get too far under,” said Fabian, “or you may be caught in the roots and branches.”
“Have no fear, child; a whale may sooner remain fixed to a fishing-boat which it can toss twenty feet into the air, than I under an islet that I could break to pieces with a blow.”