“Just when it little light, in my dugout, we go, Johnny,” said Samatan, quietly.
Settling back in a steamer chair the old man closed his eyes and appeared to sleep. While from the shore came again and again the vibrant rumble of the drums—tum—tum—tum—tum—on and on into the night that was marching toward the dawn of another day.
Tense with forebodings of what might be in store, Johnny waited—impatient and grimly expectant.
CHAPTER XVII
MARCHING ON THE CASTLE
Old Samatan was not asleep. He was only thinking. After a time he opened his eyes wide, to stare at the dark shore where drums still beat out their message.
“Make wanga,” he said to Johnny. “Always when trouble, my people make wanga—make prayer to Voodoo gods. Gods help good natives win victories.”
“Great!” exclaimed Johnny. “Then we shall win!”
“Yes. Win,” the old man said, softly.
Then Johnny told Samatan of the green arrow trail that Mildred had said she would follow. He told of the suddenly broken message he had picked up from the green arrow.
Thinking deeply, Samatan declared they should go very soon—at least a full hour before dawn.