The colony began to stir. After a hurried conference with Captain Mason, Christopher and I left to keep the appointment with Beelo. We were ready for him when he came all out of breath. It made me uneasy to note that he studiedly avoided my eyes and made no reference to the scene in camp.
“There’s not a moment to lose,” he said. “Come; follow me—cautiously.” His manner betrayed a nervous haste.
“Beelo!” I said, seeing that he was too much excited.
He stood panting while he got himself in hand, but still kept his face turned from me.
“Now I’m all right,” he said.
He threaded the jungle as though every shrub and tree and turning-place were familiar, and held a course on that side of the valley which brought us under the Face.
His agility taxed me. Not so Christopher: his deftness equaled Beelo’s. We were a silent trio.
The transverse ridge was crossed, and we entered strange territory. Beelo’s eyes and ears were incessantly on watch. Now and then he would come to an abrupt halt and hold his breath, but nothing appeared. We kept to the deepest shadows, which were further blackened by the steadily thickening darkness of the sky. I feared a downpour.
Without mishap we finally reached the lower end of the valley. I had been trying to see the opening through which the stream must run, but even when we halted near the cliff, not a break appeared.
Beelo dropped to the ground. “We’ll rest,” said he.