“Easy now,” whispered Mr. Hume, “and keep quite still.”

The oars were drawn in as the Okapi, caught in a current, was borne right into the bank at a spot where the trees came down to the brink.  Mr. Hume caught a branch, and the stern swung round.  Before them, about a quarter of a mile off perhaps, was the great fire they had first seen, still fed by natives, whose dark figures stood out and disappeared as they moved about.  Out on the river they could hear the noise of paddles, and of men calling to each other.

Near them on the bank something moved, and above the swishing of the current they heard the low whine of an animal.

Mr. Hume pricked his ears at the sound, and crept into the well, where the boys sat anxiously watching.

“Put on your coats,” he muttered.

Again there came the whine, then the sound of an animal scrambling, and next the patter of feet.

“A dog,” whispered Venning.

“I advise keeping on,” said Compton.

“And I,” replied Mr. Hume, “advise that we have something to eat.  Will you serve us, Venning?”

They ate hungrily, for through the day they had been too much excited to think of food.  And as they feasted their eyes were on the move, and their ears on the stretch.  Their manoeuvre had apparently succeeded, for the canoes were all beating up towards the fires under the belief that the Okapi had kept on, and there was no suspicious movement by the people on the shore.  So they remained where they were, keeping themselves in position by holding on to the branches.  To the boys it was a weird scene, with the blood-red glow on the waters and the sense of vastness and of wildness.  They were not afraid, but they could not help a feeling of weariness, and they edged nearer the hunter for the comfort of his presence.  For a long time they watched, sitting silent; and by-and-by the fires on the islands died down one by one, until only the flare on the bank remained as a beacon to those on the river.  Then the sound of paddling drew near again.

Again the whine came from behind the screen of trees, and there was a rustling among the branches.

Taking a bit of the dried meat he had been eating, Mr. Hume tossed it through the leaves.  There came a sniff, a snap of the jaws, and a whimper.  The hunter shifted his rifle till it pointed through the boughs.

“Peace,” said a low voice.  “It is Muata and his beast.  They hunt me yet.”

“Us also, O chief!”

The canoes came rushing in.  Already some of the crews had landed near the fire; but others were coming down-stream, hugging the banks for safety, or, maybe, having a last look for the Englishmen.

“It is Muata!” cried Venning, in a joyous whisper.  “Muata and his jackal.  What luck!”

“S-sh!”

A canoe went by some distance out, after it another, and as they swept into the darkness, a third announced its presence, coming more slowly and closer in.  While it was nearly opposite the hiding the howl of the jackal rose from out the bush, wringing a startled exclamation from the two boys by its suddenness.