Percival's blood was still in a tumult as he ran down the line of
cabins. From every doorway men were now stumbling, half-dressed,
half-asleep. Behind them, in many cabins, alarmed, agitated women
appeared. Farther on there were lanterns and a chaotic mass of moving
objects. Above the increasing clamour rose the horrible, uncanny wail
of a woman. Percival's blood cooled, his brain cleared. Men shouted
questions as he passed, and obeyed his command to follow.

The ugly story is soon told. Philippa, the fifteen-year-old daughter of
Pedro, the head-farmer, had gone out from her father's cabin at dusk
to fetch water from the little reservoir that had been constructed
alongside Leap Frog River a short distance above the cabins. The pool
was a scant two hundred yards from her home. It was a five minutes'
walk there and back. Half-an-hour passed, and she had not returned. Her
mother became uneasy. Pedro reassured her. He laughed at her fears.

"She could not have fallen into the pool," he said. "You forget the
fence we have built around it."

"I am not thinking of the pool, Pedro," she argued. "Go you at once and
search for her. She is no laggard. She has not stopped in to see one of
the girls."

And Pedro went grumpily forth to search for his daughter. An hour later
he came staggering down from the woods above the pool to meet the dozen
or more friends and neighbours who had set out some-time earlier to look
for the two of them, father and daughter.

He bore in his arms the limp, apparently lifeless form of Philippa.
He was covered with blood, he was chattering like a madman. Out of his
incoherent babble the horrified searchers were able to put together the
cruel story. It seems he had heard a faint cry far back in the dense
wood,--another and yet another. Then utter silence. Even the night-birds
were still. Swift, paralysing fear choked him. He tried to call out as
he rushed blindly up from the pool into the forest, but only hoarse,
unnatural gasps left his lips. He fell often, he crashed into the trunks
of trees, but always he went onward, gasping out his futile cries. He
knew not how long he beat through the forest. He was not even sure
that it was Philippa's cry he had heard, but his soul was filled with a
great, convincing dread. He knew that his beloved Philippa, the idol
of his heart, the sunshine of his life, was up there in the woods.
Frequently he stopped to listen. He could hear nothing save the pounding
of h