The black whose teeth were chattering was mumbling something.
"What's that?" asked Gifford, turning to him.
"Ribber not far off," the man replied.
Gifford spoke to him in his own language, and then he addressed the others in a whisper.
"This boy was a slave to the Bangwalis," he said. "He tells me there is a stream to the northward. We might make it and find a canoe at the banks. It's our only chance for life."
"Will we have to leave the treasure behind?" asked Mr. McFee, hoarsely.
"Confound the treasure!" responded Gifford. "It may be the death of us yet. We have enough white stones to make us rich."
It was midnight, judging as well as they could, when they crawled from their hiding-place, and there was nothing for it but to take the path again and go cautiously, as it was impossible in the darkness to travel through the forest. But after following the path for half an hour it lightened suddenly, and they perceived that it was only the thick foliage that had kept the moonlight from reaching them. A few rods further on they went, and a broad stream lay spread before them. On the opposite shore lights could be seen, and the sound of wailing voices and the beating of drums proclaimed the fact that some negro rite was there in progress. The black man pointed with his finger, and Gifford held up his hand as an order to halt.
"King Obani, he home," said the negro boy, nodding across the river. "Three year ago English too 'm. No find gold."
"I know where I am now," whispered Gifford, excitedly. "This river is the Mmymbi; that is Obani's chief town. Willoughby and the rangers took it three years ago, and were fooled in getting the loot, don't you remember. Eh? the idiots!"