By degrees he began to recollect his whereabouts. The way grew
less difficult - occasionally there were signs of a path. Every
moment the soft, damp heat grew more intense and clammy. Every
time he touched his forehead he found it dripping. But of these
things he recked very little, for every step now brought him
nearer to the end of his journey. Faintly, through the midday
silence he could hear the clanging of copper instruments and the
weird mourning cry of the defeated natives. A few more steps and
he was almost within sight of them. He slackened his pace and
approached more stealthily until only a little screen of bushes
separated him from the village and, peering through them, he saw
a sight which made his blood run cold within him.
They had the boy! He was there, in that fantastic circle bound
hand and foot, but so far as he could see, at present unhurt. His
face was turned to Trent, white and a little scared, but his lips
were close-set and he uttered no sound. By his side stood a man
with a native knife dancing around and singing - all through the
place were sounds of wailing and lamentation, and in front of his
hut the King was lying, with an empty bottle by his side, drunk
and motionless. Trent's anger grew fiercer as he watched.
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