“What is it, John Ball?”

He went to the edge of the black water and waded out until it rose to his knees, his eyes staring into the blackness.

“What is it?”

He, too, pointed with one arm, and the madman gave an excited gesture.  Then he placed his hands funnel-shaped to his mouth, as Rod had often seen Wabi and Mukoki do when calling moose, and there burst from him a far-reaching cry, and Rod’s heart gave a sudden bound as he listened, for the cry was that of a woman’s name!

“Dol—­o—­res-s-s-s—­Dol—­o—­res-s-s-s—­”

The cry died away in distant murmuring echoes, and with an answering cry Rod shouted forth the name which he fancied John Ball had spoken.

“Dolores!  Dolores!  Dolores!”

There came a sudden leaping plunge, and John Ball was at his feet, clasping him about the knees, and sobbing again and again that name—­Dolores.  Rod put his arms about the old man’s shoulders, and the gray, shaggy head fell against him.  The sobbing voice grew lower, the weight of the head greater, and after a little Rod called loudly for Mukoki and Wabigoon, for there was no longer movement or sound from the form at his feet, and he knew that something had happened to John Ball.  The two Indians were quickly at his side, and together they carried the unconscious form of Ball within the circle of torch-light.  The old man’s eyes were closed, his claw-like fingers were clenched fiercely upon his breast, and not until Mukoki placed a hand over his heart did the three know that he was still breathing.

“Now is our time to get him to camp,” said Wabi.  “Lead the way with the torch, Rod!”

There was not much weight to John Ball, and the two Indians carried him easily.  At the fall the rubber blanket was wound about his head and the adventurers plunged under the cataract with their burden.  It was an hour after that before the old man opened his eyes again.  Rod was close beside him and for a full minute the mad hunter gazed up into his face, then once more he sank off into that strange unconsciousness which had overcome him in the cavern.  Rod rose white-faced and turned to Mukoki and Wabigoon.

“I’m afraid—­he’s dying,” he said.

The Indians made no answer.  For several minutes the three sat silently about John Ball watching for signs of returning consciousness.  At last Mukoki roused himself to take a pot of soup from the fire.  The movement seemed to stir John Ball into life, and Rod was at his side again, holding a cup of water to his lips.  After a little he helped the old man to sit up, and a spoonful at a time the warm soup was fed to him.