Jacky’s answer made Mary scream with affright, and startled even Jem’s iron nerves for a moment.  At the very first word of the Irishwoman’s story, the savage had seated himself on the ground with his back turned to the others, and, unnoticed by them, had rapidly painted his face with the war-paint of his tribe.  Words cannot describe the ghastly terrors, the fiendish ferocity these traditional lines and colors gave his countenance.  This creature, that looked so like a fiend, came erect into the middle of the tent with a single bound, as if that moment vomited forth by hell, and yet with a grander carriage and princelier presence than he had worn in time of peace; and even as he bounded he crossed his tomahawk and narrow wooden shield, to signify that his answer was no vulgar asseveration, but a vow of sacred war.

“KALINGALUNGA WILL KILL THEM, AND DRINK THEIR BLOOD.”

Kalingalunga glided from the tent.  Jem followed him.  The snow fell in flakes as large as a lady’s hand, and the air was dark; Jem could not see where the hunter was taking him, but he strode after him and trusted to his sagacity.

Five hours’ hard walking, and then the snow left off.  The air became clear, and to Jem’s surprise the bush, instead of being on his right hand, was now on his left; and there on its skirts, about a mile off, was the native camp.  They had hardly come in sight of it when it was seen to break from quietude into extraordinary bustle.

“What is up?” asked Jem.

The hunter smiled, and pointed to his own face: 

“Kalingalunga painted war.”

“What eyes the beggars must have,” said Jem.

The next minute a score of black figures came tearing up in such excitement that their long rows of white teeth and the whites of their eyes flashed like Budelights in their black heads.

Kalingalunga soon calmed them down by letting them know that he was painted for a private, not a national feud.  He gave them no further information.  I suspect he was too keen a sportsman to put others on the scent of his game.  He went all through the camp, and ascertained from the stragglers that no men answering the description of George and Robinson had passed out of the wood.

“They are in the wood,” said he

He then ordered a great fire—­bade Jem dry his clothes and eat; he collected two of his wives and committed Jem to their care, and glided like a panther into the wood.

What with the great heat succeeding to the great cold, and the great supper the gins gave him, Jem fell fast asleep.  It was near daylight when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and there was Kalingalunga.

“Not a track on the snow.”

“No? then let us hope they are not in the wood.”

The hunter hung his head.

“Me tink they are in the wood,” said he, gravely.

Jem groaned, “Then they are lying under the soil of it or in some dark pit.”