That it was deep, Joaquim witnessed when he crept stealthily under the doorway of the hut of their honored guest. Soundlessly he stole up to Hal’s hammock and listened intently for fully five minutes to his soft, even breathing. Then, with a satisfied air, the Indian stole out again.
Hal, however, being temperamental, was often disturbed by another’s mere presence. It was so in this case, for he was awake and sitting up in his hammock before Joaquim’s stealthy figure had cleared the doorway. And though he was still dazed, he knew that the Indian’s presence was a sign that Old Marcellus and his granddaughter were up to something.
Hal got into his clothes in a minute and crept cautiously toward the door. He stood and listened there before he emerged and even then put out his head and looked about carefully.
There was no sound except the low murmur of voices from Pemberton’s hut. He could not distinguish them at all and proceeded to move further out into the clearing when he suddenly saw Joaquim’s squat figure move out of the shadows and down toward the river.
Hal moved noiselessly up to the Pemberton hut and drew close into its protecting shadows. Old Marcellus was talking in even tones, calm and distinct.
“Yes,” he was saying, “this used to be a Pallida settlement. Why do you ask, Señor?”
“Curiosity, Señor Pemberton,” said a soft, purring voice. “And your son, his canoe, his camp was found here—no?”
“Yes. But surely you heard the story many times.”
“Not so thoroughly as I heard it lately, Señor. And the Pallidas they did not come back to claim their settlement?”
“No,” answered Old Marcellus. “It’s their custom not to reclaim a settlement once they’re driven off by a white man. They have a reputation for superstition you know.”