husbands had come to live with him. He had waxed
fat long ago on their labors, and now only this youngest one remained
unmarried. But the ceremony was set. Inocencio had heard the news upon
his arrival three days before, and had grudgingly bought a big store of
tortoise-shell from the groom-to-be, knowing full well that the money
was intended for the wedding celebration. Markeena was the fellow's
name, a straight, up-standing youth who more than once had excited the
Haytian's admiration for his skill with a canoe. But since that day the
latter had regarded him with smoldering eyes.

The big thatched roof with its bark-floored loft stood on posts
blackened by the smoke of many feasts; there were no walls. The jungle
crept close to it from the rear, and hence the watcher could witness
every movement of the girl as she passed between the hammocks or stooped
to her task. He could see, for instance, the play of her dark round
shoulders above the neck of her shift. He ground his yellow teeth and
gripped the moist earth with the soles of his naked feet, as a tiger
bares its claws before the leap.

It was very hard to wait. For an hour he stood there. Once a dog came to
him and sniffed, then, recognizing a frequent visitor, returned to the
house and resumed its slumber beside the fire. From the houses beyond
came the sound of voices, of a child crying querulously, and of a woman
quieting it. People came and went. An old hag began pounding grain in a
mortar, crooning in a broken voice. The girl's father came rolling into
view, and, after a word to her, struggled heavily up the ladder to his
bed. He was snoring almost before the structure had ceased to creak
beneath him. In the thicket a multitude of nocturnal sounds arose, the
insect chorus of the night.

And then, before Inocencio realized what she was up to, the girl had
stolen swiftly out and past him, so close that he could hear the scuff
of her sandals on the beaten path. The next instant he had glided from
cover and fallen in behind, his pulses leaping, his long, lithe muscles
rippling; but he moved as silently as a shadow.

Had he been a less accomplished bushman he might have lost her, for she
plunged into the jungle unhesitatingly. However, he had long ago learned
these trails by daylight, and knew them better than the lines of his own
palm; hence, every moonlit turn, every flash of her white slip, found
him close upon her track.

It puzzled him at first to discove