with the brown venom.

Forced to study his every footfall, he made slower progress. He was
far up the great slope when he noticed that the tangled underbrush had
given way to a smooth carpet of leaves. Night was near, so he halted
when he came to an open spot, a place where volcanic rock precluded
vegetable growth. Water, steaming hot, poured from a fissure.

It was the first time he had sighted the sky since morning, and here
he saw the only sign of life the day had afforded. Two gray pigeons
flew side by side across the opening in the trees, winging toward the
crest of the mountain.

Sleep did not come to him. All through the night he sat by the fire,
staring out into the ruddy circle of vision illumined by the blaze,
peering into the shadows cast by the great trunks. Once a dead limb
fell from a towering tree that stood just at the edge of the circle of
light: he started violently, his hand darting into his shirt front to
his gun. He relaxed, slowly. Big drops of moisture dripped from the
invisible treetops. Thinking it nearly dawn he consulted his watch. It
was eleven o'clock.

Suddenly he sensed that he was no longer alone, felt the presence of
stealthy forms in the surrounding darkness, heard a twig snap in the
still forest behind him. He waited, tense, the hair at the back of his
neck stiffening as he thought of blowpipes and of darts poisoned by
steeping in the putrid entrails of wild hogs.

He felt the scrutiny of hostile eyes. Certain that he detected the
movement of an indistinct figure on the rim of the firelight, he threw
on a handful of dry twigs hoping to uncover the prowlers, but the
flareup revealed only an enlarged circle of great trees and emphasized
their shadows. He sat motionless, his eyes focussed sharply upon the
spot, and as the fire died down he saw the flicker of a dark form as
it darted from the shadow of the tree and dissolved into the bordering
gloom.

He gritted his teeth in an agony of suspense and enforced inaction. As
the long minutes crawled by he writhed inwardly in the horror of
waiting for the stinging impact of the feathered messengers of death,
marshalled every resource of his will in his effort to appear casual,
unafraid, confident of friendly reception.

Suddenly the silence of the night hills was broken by a weird sound
that rolled down from the heights. He listened, rigid, and realized
that some one was striking a small agong. It came from the crest.
Three times the