“There is no wind,” said Tressa tranquilly. “He has been waiting for it, I think. The Yezidee is very patient. And he is a Shaman sorcerer.”
“My God!” breathed Recklow. “What sort of hellish things has the Old World been dumping into America for the last fifty years? An ordinary anarchist is bad enough, but this new breed of devil—these Yezidees—this sect of Assassins——”
“Hush!” whispered Tressa.
All three listened to the great cat-owl howling from the jungle. But Tressa had heard another sound—the vague stir of leaves in the live-oaks. Was it a passing breeze? Was a night wind rising? She listened. But heard no brittle clatter from the palm-fronds.
“Victor,” she said.
“Yes, Tressa.”
“If a wind comes, we must hunt him. That will be necessary.”
“Either we hunt him and get him, or he kills us here with his gas,” said Recklow quietly.
“If the night wind comes,” said Tressa, “we must hunt the darkness for the Yezidee.” She spoke coolly.
“If he’d only show himself,” muttered Recklow, staring into the darkness.