Satisfied he was not followed and that Schillingschen was elsewhere, Coutlass crept from rock to rock toward the little cluster of small ones where, by his own confession, he had seen Fred bury the box.  Schillingschen stalked him through the shadows as actively as a great ape, making no sound, as clearly visible to us as he was invisible to Coutlass.

There was not a trace of mist—­nothing to obscure the dim pale light, and as the moon swung higher into space we could see both men’s every movement, like the play of marionettes.

Down on his knees at last among the small loose rocks, Coutlass began digging with his fingers—­grew weary of that very soon, and drew out the long knife from his boot—­dug with that like a frenzied man until from our tree we heard the hard point strike on metal.  Then Schillingschen began to close in, and it was time for us to drop down from the tree.

We made an abominable lot of noise about it, for the tree creaked, and our clothing tore on the thorny projections of limbs that seemed to have grown there since we climbed.  To make matters worse, I stepped off the lowest branch, imagining there was another branch beneath it, and fell headlong, rifle and all, with a clatter and thump that should have alarmed the village half a mile away.  And Will, not knowing what I had done but alarmed by the noise I made, jumped down on top of me.

We picked ourselves up and listened.  We could hear the short quick stabs of the knife as Coutlass loosed and scooped the earth out.  Among the myriad noises of the African night our own, that seemed appalling to us, had passed unnoticed—­or perhaps Schillingschen heard, and thought it was the injured lion dragging himself away. (Nobody needed worry about the chance of attack from that particular lion for many a night to come; he would ask nothing better than to be left to eat mice and carrion until his awful wounds were healed.)

Reassured by the sound of digging we crept forward, knowing pretty well the best path to take from having seen Schillingschen stalking.  But it was more by dint of their obsession than by any skill of ours that we crept up near without giving them alarm.  Coutlass was still on his knees, throwing out the last few handfuls of loose dirt.  Schillingschen stood almost over him, so close that the thrown dirt struck against his legs.

We took up positions in the shadow, one to either side, almost afraid to breathe, I cursing because the rifle quivered in my two hands like the proverbial aspen leaf.  The prospect of shooting a white man—­even such a thorough-paced blackguard white as Schillingschen—­made me as nervous as a school-girl at a grown-up party.

At last Coutlass groped down shoulder-deep and drew the box out.

“Give that to me!” Schillingschen shouted like a thunder-clap, making me jump as if I were the one intended.

The moonlight gleamed on the tin box.  Coutlass did not drop it but turned his head to look behind him.  Schillingschen swung for his face with a clenched fist and the whole weight and strength of his ungainly body.  He would have broken the jaw he aimed at had the blow landed; but the Greek’s wit was too swift.