In the drowsy noon the tired boy slept, and through the afternoon, opening his eyes for a moment occasionally as the voices of the women rose to a higher pitch in a mournful dirge they were singing over the missing, and at intervals the jackal would raise his sharp muzzle and sniff the air.  There was some note in the dirge that disturbed the boy, and there was some taint in the air that made the jackal uneasy.  Once it stood up as if to explore, but the sight of its bandaged foot brought a pucker to his brows, and it curled itself up again after an intent look into the face of his human companion.

For the rest of the day the dirge went on, rising and sinking like the murmur of the sea in its flow and ebb on a still day.  At dusk the two came back from their long march to the Deadman’s Pool, bringing the report that they had recovered the missing boat, and concealed it in a place of their own choosing this time.  Venning awoke to hear the news, but he heard it without enthusiasm, just as they had imparted the news in tones of weary indifference.

The sickness of the forest was on them all—­its monotony, its vastness, and its brooding silence—­and it caught them when they were most liable to the attack; that is, when they were tired out, with all the spring gone from mind and sinews.

“My poor father!” muttered Compton, as he sat down with his back to the rock.  “No wonder he looked upon this as a prison, placed as it is in this wilderness of trees.”

Mr. Hume nodded, and sat with his arms resting on his knees, smoking, and staring at nothing.

Muata joined them, but his coming did not rouse them.

“I have looked down on the gates, Ngonyama.  As you said, the river was blocked by Hassan; but there is no sign of the thief, only some canoes dropped by his men in their flight.”

He sat down and smoked, too, with the same listless look on his face.

The jackal rose at his master’s coming, and stood whining and sniffing the air.

No one took any notice of him but Venning, who coaxed him to him, and placed an arm round his yellow neck.

“Why don’t they sing something else?” said Compton, irritably, as the mournful wail dinned its misery into his ears.

Muata looked at the white men.  “It is the rains,” he said.

“Eh?”

“The rains are coming.  Maybe that is why Hassan struck so soon, for when the rains come, every warrior is like the bow-string that has been soaked in water.  They hide the sun, they breed chills and sickness.  I can feel the breath of them in my bones.  It is the rains.”

He shivered, and threw a stick on the fire.  “In the morning,” he said, “we must find a new home, for the rains blow in at the mouth of this cave.  The clouds hang low on the hills.”

“We have found our boat, chief; we will go on our way,” said the Hunter, bluntly.