Was it true that he had slain a gorilla with bow and arrow, that he warred successfully against the Arab slave-hunters?  Had he subdued a band of men by sheer force of will?

The boys believed him.  They did not stop to ask whether the story was probable.  They formed their opinion upon the manner of the young chief—­upon his grave dignity, and upon the absence of a boastful spirit.

“If his story is true,” said Mr. Hume, “he owes much to his mother.”

“Where is your mother?” asked Compton.

“The chief’s wife is not a woman,” said Muata.  “And yet she is a woman.  She beguiled them in the forest by pretence of great submission and fear of the woods.  So they trusted her to bring firewood, believing she would not go far from the camp.  But she was watching for sign of the little people.  This I know, for she vanished in the woods near the river.  And the yellow hunters of men knew not how she had gone; but they left word to people by the river to say to me that my mother had been carried away in a canoe.”

“And what will you do now?”

“See, I am no one—­a liver on kindness, a slave at the gate.  But in time Muata will return to the place of hiding.”

“Better stay with us, Muata.  We go into the forest ourselves.  We will give you food, and teach you how to use the weapon of the Arab hunters.  You will hunt for us, work in the canoe for us, and, maybe, we will go with you to your hiding-place.”

“The forest is dark and terrible.  Why, will my father enter the darkness with his sons?”

“We go to hunt, and for the love of the woods and the water.  Has not a hunter joy in the hunting?”

“I know it;” and the chief observed them intently, as if he were unpersuaded.  “The ways of white men are strange.  Muata hunts to keep the hut supplied with meat, but the white man carries his meat with him.  When he kills he leaves the meat and takes only the horns or the skin of the thing he has slain.  Muata is not a child.  When he sees a single vulture in the sky, he knows there are others coming behind.  A white man comes out of the beyond into the black man’s country.  He is soft-spoken; he is a hunter only.  Mawoh! and behind him comes an army.”

“What do you know about white men, Muata?”

“The wise men at the hiding-place talked.  They knew one such.  He lived among them.  His ways were strange.  He talked with the trees; he sought among the rocks; he communed with spirits.  He was harmless, but the wise men said others would follow on his trail doing mischief.  So I ask, my father, why do you wish to enter the forest?”

“Because,” said Compton, leaning forward, “my father was lost in the forest, and I would find him.  Tell me, where is the white man your old men talked of?”

“The forest takes, the forest keeps,” said Muata, lifting a hand solemnly.

“Do you mean,” asked the boy, quietly, “that the white man does not live?”