The trail had been recovered fifty yards further on, the intervening ground having been covered apparently by the cannibals without leaving a sign.  Venning blundered on a little way before he discovered that he had left his bundle behind.

“I’ll wait for you,” said Compton, sitting down on a tree-stump, while Mr. Hume, who had left his position in the rear to consult with Muata, had his back turned.

Venning recovered his bundle, and turned to retrace his steps, but for the time his heavy eyes were no longer faithful guides, and, instead of taking the right direction, he entered a likely looking opening through the trees to the left and hurried on.  When he had covered a distance that should have brought him to Compton, he stopped.

“Halloa! halloa!” he cried.

There was no answer.

“Compton!  I say, no larks.  Where are you?”

A little in advance he heard the rustle of leaves, and went on quickly.  When he reached the place where the sound came from there was nothing there, and he gathered his wits together.  With a little laugh at his carelessness, he began to retrace his steps, but there was a problem to be dealt with at every step, for he could see nothing familiar.  In that multitude of trees, planted so close together, each tree seemed alike.  He put his hand to his mouth and uttered a long “coo-ee.”  The call seemed to be shut in, sounding in his ears very weak and quavering.

“Coo-ee!”—­and again “coo-ee!” Ah, that was an answer; and with a glad shout he set off in the direction whence came an answer to his call, forced his way through the undergrowth, tripped and fell over a dead branch with a thud that made his head throb so that he was glad to sit back with closed eyes.

When he opened them again he heard a rustling of the leaves, and moved his lips to call out.  “Compton!”

There was unmistakably the sound of some one jumping aside as if startled.

“Over here!” said Venning; and then he closed his eyes again with a feeling of languor.  Compton, in the meanwhile growing impatient, walked a few steps in the direction his chum had taken.  The rest of the party had moved on, thinking, no doubt, he was following, and he knew that neither he nor Venning could pick up the spoor if they lost touch.  He peered through the scrub for some time without seeing any one, and then he heard a low cry—­a strangled sort of cry, as if Venning were calling in a very feeble voice.  Unshipping his Lee-Metford carbine from the loop, by which it hung at his side, he dashed forward, fully expecting to find his friend in the hands of man or beast.

But at the last stopping-place there was no sign of his friend; and, with head bent, he listened for some sound, his mouth firmly set, and his dark eyes glancing from under his well-marked, brows.