The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that—­blackness, and, so far as he could tell, a silence of death.  Just behind them a passing puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly down again without disturbing the rest of the covey.  It seemed as if a million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single visible effect. Other life pulsed about them—­and was gone.

Defago turned abruptly; the livid hue of his face had turned to a dirty grey.

“I never said I heered—­or smelt—­nuthin’,” he said slowly and emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of defiance.  “I was only—­takin’ a look round—­so to speak.  It’s always a mistake to be too previous with yer questions.”  Then he added suddenly with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, “Have you got the matches, Boss Simpson?” and proceeded to light the pipe he had half filled just before he began to sing.

Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire.  Defago changing his side so that he could face the direction the wind came from.  For even a tenderfoot could tell that.  Defago changed his position in order to hear and smell—­all there was to be heard and smelt.  And, since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to his marvelously trained nerves.

“Guess now I don’t feel like singing any,” he explained presently of his own accord.  “That song kinder brings back memories that’s troublesome to me; I never oughter’ve begun it.  It sets me on t’ imagining things, see?”

Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion.  He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other.  But the explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it.  For nothing could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while he stood there sniffing the air.  And nothing—­no amount of blazing fire, or chatting on ordinary subjects—­could make that camp exactly as it had been before.  The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his companion.  The guide’s visible efforts to dissemble the truth only made things worse.  Moreover, to add to the younger man’s uneasiness, was the difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also his complete ignorance as to the cause ...Indians, wild animals, forest fires—­all these, he knew, were wholly out of the question.  His imagination searched vigorously, but in vain....

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