Wilson had heard that cry before. His blood chilled. If the men of
the other village were furious, how would it be with these drunken
savages! He hurried to the spot whence the children had emerged.

As their voices died away he became conscious of shouting--an exultant
tone. It was Leboeuf. They met in the outskirts of the wood. At sight of
Wilson he bawled--

'Hi, young un! got any weeds to sell? Give you tuppence for the lot.
Pretty flowers--all a-blowing and a-growing! Take 'em to the missus! The
ladies loves you chaps. I say, what'll old Cutter look like when he sees
_that_?' Leboeuf threw down an animal which he carried on his shoulder,
and danced round it, shouting and laughing.

It was a small creature, brownish grey, with enormous ears very human in
shape, long skeleton hands, and a bushy tail thicker than a lady's boa. By
that and the ears Wilson recognised the Madagascar sloth, rarest of all
animals then in museums, and very rare still. He had no particular reason
to suspect that the natives reverenced it, but a beast so eerie in
appearance and habits might well be thought sacred.

He implored Leboeuf to leave it and come away; Leboeuf did not even
listen. After dancing and roaring till he was tired he picked up the
aye-aye and marched on, talking loud.

Thus they did not hear the noise of a multitude approaching. But from the
edge of the forest they saw it. Chiefs led the van, stumbling and
staggering; among the foremost was that personage in snowy lamba and broad
black hat--not pleasant-looking now. A mob of spearmen pressed behind. The
clearing was a compact mass of natives, running, wailing,
gesticulating--and they still streamed in thousands through the narrow
gate. It was like the rush of ants when their nest is disturbed.

The sight paralysed even Leboeuf; Wilson, after an awful glance, ran
back and hid. He could hear his comrade's shouts above the uproar for a
moment--then there was a pause, and the interpreter's voice reached him
faintly. Wilson still crept away. He heard only a confused clamour for
some minutes, but then a burst of vengeful triumph made the forest ring.
It needed no explanation. Leboeuf was overpowered. The noise grew
fainter--they were dragging him away--and ceased.

For hours Wilson lay in an agony of fear. That Leboeuf was killed he did
not doubt; but how could he himself escape, alone in the forest, ignorant
of the roads, many weeks journey from the coast? A more cruel fat