A few gliding foot-steps, then from his lips there sounded a loud:
“Hist!”
The next instant the white gleam of his flashlight shot down the trail. It fell upon two startled faces, one white, one coal black.
But Curlie did not do the disappearing act into the brush. Instead he uttered a low exclamation that expressed profound surprise. The persons before him were Dot and her aged black servant Mona.
“Wha—what are you doing here?” Dot gasped, as he came forward.
“After a drum,” he stated briefly. “Buy that drum. Pay forty gourdes if I must. That’s the drum I want. Just the right tone.”
“Do you know what that drum may cost?” Dot’s tone was impressive.
“Fifty—”
“Not fifty, not a hundred, nor a thousand gourdes, but many times that in money and men. That is the war drum of the revolution. It says that they have the black goat once more. Come on. We are glad you are here. But we must hasten. Even now we may be too late.” The French girl’s dark eyes shone like fire as she turned once more to take up the trail to follow the sound of the drums.