“I forget nothing,” she replied coldly. “I’ve begged you to hurry.”
“Muella, go back at once. To-morrow—after a night in the jungle—with me—you can’t go. It’ll be too late!”
“It’s too late now,” breathed the girl. “I can’t go back—now!”
“Go first, then,” he said, whipping out the long machete. “I’ll wait here for Tigre.”
“Señor, there are other tigres. There are panthers, too, and wild boars. I may lose the trail. Will you let me go alone?”
III
AUGUSTINE whispered the name of a saint, and turning his dark face toward where the trail led out of the clearing, he strode on without sheathing his machete.
Muella kept close to him, and entered the enclosing walls of jungle verdure. She felt indeed that she was the untamed thing Bernardo had called her, and now she was hunted. Light as dropping leaves, her feet pattered in the trail. Augustine loomed beside her, striding swiftly, and now and then the naked blade he carried, striking against a twig or branch, broke the silence with a faint ring.
The green walls became hovering shadows and turned to gray. Muella had an irresistible desire to look back. The darkening menace of the gloom before and on each side was nothing to that known peril behind. She saw nothing, however, but a dull, gray, wavering line fading into the obscurity of the jungle. She strained her hearing. Except for the soft swishing of her skirt on the brush, and the occasional low ring of Augustine’s machete, there was absolutely no sound.