It was not pitch-dark. A dank mist hung over the river, blotting out the tree-clad banks on either hand. Overhead, the stars shone dimly through the drifting pall of vapour. The air reeked with noxious odours of decaying vegetation mingled with the sickly smell from the burnt grass.
From the depths of the forests came unmistakable sounds to indicate that the never-ceasing war between the various denizens was being briskly prosecuted. The shrill cries of a colony of monkeys, their rest suddenly disturbed by a hungry puma, the death-cry of a deer, crushed to the ground by the irresistible weight of a leaping jaguar; the squeal of agony of some luckless animal seized in the act of drinking on the riverbank, by the powerful jaws of a cayman—these were but a few of the noises that disturbed the silence of the tropical night.
The river flowed silently past the rocky islet on which the Englishmen were camping, but even the river contributed to the disturbing factors. Ever and again there was a sullen splash, as a semi-torpid alligator collided with another of his kind.
A little later on—it must have been about two in the morning—Peter noticed several dark objects drifting downstream. At first he thought that they were caymans, until one of them, hitching upon a submerged rock, revealed itself as a huge tree trunk. Swinging round, the massive log fouled another projection. Quickly a second trunk drifted against the first, then another, and yet another, until the "jam" assumed gigantic proportions, extending from midstream to within ten or twelve yards from the sandy beach of the little island.
Suddenly, from the rapidly increasing raft, a lithe shape leapt shorewards. Its leap was insufficient to clear the intervening space. It fell into the water and commenced swimming for the island.
Before Peter could grasp the situation and level his rifle, the animal rushed past him at a distance less than fifty paces, and with a cat-like bound gained the high rocky ground and disappeared from view.
It was a jaguar, one of the most formidable and cunning animals of the South American forests. And now the brute, possibly ravenous from its prolonged stay on the floating log, was marooned on a barren islet. In such circumstances it would not hesitate to attack man.
It was no exaggeration to say that Peter "had the wind up"—badly. The bare rock eight feet high and less than twenty feet from the boat, offered an excellent "take off" for a hungry jaguar. Yet Peter hesitated to rouse his relative. Although he was in a blue funk, it struck him that it was a far greater admission of fear to have to acknowledge the fact. Very cautiously, he laid down his rifle and took up the double-barrelled shot-gun, reasoning that with a heavy charge of buck-shot he stood a better chance of dealing with the huge feline than with a rifle.
Then, with his face to the menacing wall of rock, and with the gun held at the "ready", Peter prepared for the coming attack, since he felt certain that the jaguar would take the offensive.
From that moment he had no knowledge of the passing of time. It seemed an hour, perhaps more, before the tension was relaxed.