Holman picked himself up and looked around.  The pink flush had deepened in the east, and nearby objects were discernible.

“By all the gods! we are back on the ledge near the crevice!” he cried.  “Come along and we’ll hunt for Kaipi.”

It was wonderful how we had pulled up in our slide near the place where we had witnessed the performance that prompted us to make the ascent.  But there was no mistake about the spot.  As we crawled along the platform we found that we had landed not more than twenty feet from the crevice through which we had witnessed the blood-curdling “tivo,” and we hurried toward the spot where we had left the Fijian, whose nerves had been upset by the glimpse he had had of the strange antics of the dancers.

But Kaipi was not at the spot where we had left him.  Whether his fears had increased to such an extent that they had forced him to leave the place, or whether he had come to the conclusion that we had returned to the camp by some other route, we could not determine; so wasting no time on useless conjecture we hurried toward the big maupei tree up which we had climbed to reach the ledge.

But Holman’s hurry proved disastrous.  He had escaped the dangers of the cliff descent to meet an accident when he had sufficient light to see what he was about.  In reaching for the limb of the tree that threshed against the cliff, he lost his footing, and before I could grip him he went crashing through the foliage to the ground, some fifty feet below!

I thought that I was an hour descending that tree, but I could not have been more than three minutes if my skinned legs could be relied upon as evidence of speed.  I found Holman in a thorny tangle, and as I dragged him into the open he groaned loudly and endeavoured to get upon his feet.

“Are you hurt?” I questioned.

“No, no!” he cried.  “I’m not hurt, Verslun.  Get me on my feet, man.  Quick!  For the love of God, quick!”

I gripped his shoulders and he managed to stand upright.  The dawn came with tropic suddenness at that moment, and I saw that he was bleeding from a nasty wound above the right temple, while he limped painfully as I helped him across a small cleared patch near the tree.

“I’ve hurt my leg,” he cried, “but I’m going to get to the camp.  If I fall, Verslun, I want you to lend me a hand.  Promise to help me, will you?  She—­Miss Barbara, you know, old man.  She is everything to me.  Give me a hand if I tumble down.”

“I promise,” I answered, and he wrung my hand as we started off through the clawing, scratching vines that tripped us up as we tried to fight our way forward.