Making no sound, they went swiftly through the jungle and did not pause or stop to rest until they had put a great distance between them and the scene of the fantastic nightmare adventure of the evening before.
When the sun was high above their heads and all the jungle seemed to fry and crackle beneath the heat of it, Bomba and his companions sat down to eat the last of the jaguar meat and some berries and nuts they had gathered by the way. Farther back they had found a stream of clear, cool water, where they had slaked their thirst.
They resumed their route and had not gone far before they heard the sound of rushing waters. The sound lent wings to Bomba’s feet, and the faithful slaves kept pace with him, no matter how fast he went.
They came out soon on the banks of a river. The noise of the foaming waters had been growing louder and louder until now it smote upon their ears like thunder. A torrent of black water dashed along the river bed and leaped angrily against the rocks that studded its course, flinging a shower of spray upon Bomba and his companions where they stood at the edge of the fringe of trees that bordered the river.
“The River of Death!” muttered Ashati in hushed tones. “It is so that our people call it.”
“And it is well named,” said Neram, making a cabalistic sign as though to ward off evil.
“Beyond the River of Death,” said Bomba in a voice of impatience, “though so far away that the eye cannot see it, is the Giant Cataract. Come, let us be quick. Nascanora and his braves cannot be far away.”
They started again, following the course of the stream. Suddenly Neram paused with his head to one side as though he were listening.
“Hark!” he said, when Bomba would have questioned him. “Someone comes.”
As soon as the words had fallen from his lips, Bomba threw himself upon the ground and put his ear to it.