The Indian turned with reluctance, for he would fain have hunted for Coleola in the forest above them. He believed she was at that hour threading its recesses, in the gray light of dawn which was beginning to make objects visible. But he was mistaken.
He said nothing when the hunter stepped upon the backward trail, and they hurried on in silence.
They had traveled a great distance under ground, and, when no glimmer greeted their eyes as they regained the edge of the black lake, an exclamation of surprise parted the hunter’s lips.
“Whar are our friends!” he cried. “They promised to wait fur us whar we left ’em; but now they’re gone.”
“They may be there in the blackness,” said Swamp Oak.
“No, they’re not there,” persisted Bell. “Ef they war they’d hev ther torch up so we could see whar to swim to. Suthin’s happened to them; now mark my words, Injun.”
A shade of paleness overspread Swamp Oak’s face as the thought of peril to Ulalah crept to his heart, and he was about to rush into the water and solve the mystery, when the hunter’s hand restrained him.
“Hist!” he whispered. “Ther devil’s takin’ a ride—ther devil an’ some ov his imps.”
As he spoke, he took the torch from the Indian’s hands and noiselessly extinguished it.
As he did so, the noise of paddles assailed their ears.