Kalingalunga reflected.  He replied to this effect: 

“That there were no more traces of an assassin than of victims, consequently that it was impossible to know anything, and that it was a good deal too stupid to speak a good deal knowing nothing.”

All this time Jem’s fear and rage and impatience contrasted greatly with the philosophic phlegm of the Pict, who looked so fierce and took it all so cool, ending with an announcement that now Kalingalunga would sleep a good deal.

The chief was soon asleep, but not till he had ordered his gins to wake him the moment the snow should be melted.  This occurred at noon, and, after snatching a hasty meal, he put a tomahawk into Jem’s hands and darted into the bush.

All the savage’s coldness disappeared now he was at work.  He took Jem right across the wood from southeast to northwest.  Nothing stopped him.  When the scrub was thick above but hollow below he threw himself on his belly and wriggled along like a snake.  When it was all thick, he hacked into it with fury and forced a path.  When it was impenetrable he went round it, and by some wonderful instinct got into the same line again.  Thus they cut clean across the wood but found no tracks.

Then the savage, being out in the open, trotted easily down the woodside to the southwest point; here he entered and took a line straight as an arrow to the northeast.

It was about five in the afternoon.  Kalingalunga was bleeding all over with scratches, and Jem was torn to pieces and done up.  He was just about to tell the other that he must give in, when Kalingalunga suddenly stopped, and pointed to the ground: 

“Track!”

“What of?”

“A white man’s shoe.”

“How many are there?”

“One.”

Jem sighed.

“I doubt it is a bad job, Jacky,” said he.

“Follow—­not too close,” was the low reply.

And the panther became a serpent, so smooth and undulating were the motions with which he glided upon the track he had now discovered.

Jem, well aware that he could not move noiselessly like the savage, obeyed him and crept after at some distance.

The savage had followed the man’s footsteps about half a mile, and the white man the savage, when suddenly both were diverted from their purpose.  Kalingalunga stood still and beckoned Jem.  Jem ran to him, and found him standing snuffing the air with his great broad nostrils, like a stag.

“What is it?”

“White fellow burn wambiloa wood.”

“How d’ye know? how d’ye know?”

“Wambiloa wood smell a good way off when him burn.”

“And how do you know it is a white man?”

“Black fellow never burn wambiloa wood; not good to burn that.  Keep it for milmeridien.”

The chief now cut off a few of his long hairs and held them up to ascertain the exact direction of the wind.  This done, he barked a tree to mark the spot to which he had followed the trail, and striking out into quite a different direction he hunted by scent.