At this, so full of mortal fear were his words, Adonis shook off his drowsiness and sat up in bed, wide awake and staring at him in wonder.
“What the deuce!” he began, and then stopped, gazing in surprise at the white face and trembling hands of his friend.
“Charlie,” he cried, “some terrible event has befallen Dianthe, or like a sword hangs over our heads. Listen, listen!”
Charlie did listen but heard nothing but the lion’s boom which now broke the stillness.
“I hear nothing, Reuel.”
“O Charlie, are you sure?”
“Nothing but the lion. But that’ll be enough if he should take it into his mind to come into camp for his supper.”
“I suppose you are right, for you can hear nothing, and I can hear nothing now. But, oh Charlie! it was so terrible, and I heard it so plainly; though I daresay it was only my—Oh God! there it is again! listen! listen!”
This time Charlie heard—heard clearly and unmistakably, and hearing, felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Shrill and clear above the lion’s call rose a prolonged wail, or rather shriek, as of a human voice rising to heaven in passionate appeal for mercy, and dying away in sobbing and shuddering despair. Then came the words: