That night Nelatu left the Indian camp.
Wacora had given him a few hints by which he thought his search for
Crookleg might be facilitated.
He had suggested that the negro lay hid within the neighbouring swamp.
This wilderness, difficult to traverse, was of great extent. It was
only by a knowledge of its intricate paths that it could be successfully
explored.
Nelatu, fully appreciating the difficulty of his undertaking, was more
than usually depressed.
This journey through the track of dry timber was easy enough.
On emerging from it he found himself on a broad savanna.
On the other side of which lay the swamp to which Wacora had directed
him.
Its gloomy appearance struck a chill to the young chief's heart.
Could it by any possibility be the place selected by Warren for
Sansuta's concealment?
He almost hoped his search for her in its sombre fastnesses might prove
futile.
Its aspect was especially forbidding at the time Nelatu reached it,
which was in the early morning.
A heavy fog rose from its dark waters, clinging around the rank
vegetation, and veiling the mosses and spectral limbs of the decayed
trees.
A foetid breath exhaled from the thick undergrowth, and the air seemed
charged with poison.
No note of bird was heard; no bloom of flower seen. Death in life was
everywhere apparent!
Carefully, and with the quick natural instinct of his race, Sansuta's
brother struck upon a well-defined trail leading inwardly from the
borders of the morass.
Following this with care, he had soon made considerable progress.
The sun rising higher as he advanced, only revealed more clearly the
gloomy character of the scene.
The thick mist became dispelled; the verdure, dark but rich, glistened
with drops of moisture, and the ghostly moss waved to and fro, stirred
by a gentle breeze that had helped to dissipate the fog.
With the bright sky, however, there came a corresponding lightness over
the young man's spirit, and a doubt arose in his mind as to the guilt of
his former friend.
"I cannot believe all that he has been accused of. Perhaps he is not
guilty of carrying off Sansuta. I always trusted him. Why should he be
so evil without a suspicion having crossed my mind that he was so? He
has not been seen since she disappeared; but yet Crookleg might be the
guilty one. If all I have been told be true, and Warren be the man, he
shall bitterly pay for his crime. But I will not believe it until I am
convinced 'tis so."
It will be seen that Nelatu was still a firm friend, ready to doubt even
villainy.
Suddenly the trail he was following came to an end.
A deep black lagoon was before his feet.
How to cross it?
Its unrippled bosom showed it to be deep.
Here and there jagged cypress stumps, to which clung drooping parasites,
stood out of it.
Nelatu felt that the trail he had followed was purposely terminated at
the edge of the lake, doubtless to be discovered on its opposite shore.
How to cross it? That was the question.
Stooping, he scanned the shore, but failed to trace any further evidence
of the footsteps of man.
He was on the point of retracing his path in order to look for a trail,
when he was arrested by a faint sound, as from a movement in the water.
It was very faint, but unmistakeable in its character.
It was the stroke of an oar!
He strained his eyes to catch a view of the boat which he felt sure was
traversing the lake.
After some time spent in the endeavour, his scrutiny was rewarded.
A strange tableau was revealed to him.
At a distance appeared the shadowy form of a canoe, in which two figures
were seated.
The fog, like a dull silver veil, was still spread over the lagoon, and
his efforts to recognise the phantom-like forms were unavailing.
The intervening curtain of vapour baffled even the keen eye-sight of an
Indian.
He hallooed to the spectral figures until the swamp re-echoed his
shouts.
In vain!
No response came from the silent voyagers.
He fancied that the measured pulling of the oars for an instant ceased,
but so dim and unreal did it all appear, that he began to doubt the
evidence of his senses.
As he gazed the canoe glided silently out of sight.
Muttering an angry adjuration at the ghostly oarsman, he threw himself
upon the ground.
Overcome with the fatiguing journey, and dispirited by his fruitless
search, he soon fell into a deep slumber.
The last film of the fog was now dispelled by the powerful rays of the
sun.
Birds sang in the trees above him, and from the black waters of the
lagoon a huge caiman crawled up the banks to bask in the noontide glare.
Still Nelatu slumbered.
He slept until the meridian heat had passed, and the evening approached,
seeming to lull all nature into silence.
The young man's sleep was placid. With his head pillowed on his arm, he
lay like one dead.
From this sweet unconsciousness he awoke with a start.
A rippling sound as of some craft cleaving the water, once more fell
upon his ear.
Had the phantom canoe returned?
A glance answered the question.
Drifting near the shore was an empty dug-out.
The broken manilla rope, dragging at the stern, told him why it was
adrift.
Without hesitation he plunged into the water, and in a few strokes
reached the straying craft.
Scrambling into it, he seized an oar found lying in its bottom, and
paddled back to the place whence he had started. Placing his gun ready
beside him, he again paddled off, and rowed into the centre of the lake,
steering his course, as nearly as he could remember, in the direction
which, in the morning, he had observed the canoe to take.
The spot, as he had marked it, was near a huge cypress tree.
It proved to be at a greater distance than he thought, and the sun had
well sunk in the western sky before he arrived at it.
Once there he came to a stop. Those he sought had evidently either gone
further out into the open water of the lagoon or had made for one or
other of the numerous narrow canals which debouched into it.
Selecting that which appeared of the greatest width, he plied his oar
and advanced towards it.