iescent except for occasional openings of horrific jaws.

To the ears of both the hammock sentinels came the mournful sounds of
living things unseen. From the depths beyond drifted the weird plaint of
the sloth, crying in the night, "Oh me, poor sloth, oh-oh-oh-oh!" Goat
suckers repeated by the hour their monotonous refrains, "Quao quao," or
"Cho-co-co-cao," while a third earnestly exhorted, "Joao corta pao!"
("John, cut wood!"). Tree frogs and crickets clacked and drummed and
hoo-hooed, guaribas poured their awful discord into the air, and on one
bright breathless night there sounded over and over a call freighted
with wretchedness and despair--the wail of that lonely owl known to the
bushmen as "the mother of the moon," whose dreadful cry portends evil to
those who hear it.

Sometimes the air shook with the thunderous concussion of some great
falling tree which, long since bled to death by parasitical plant
growths, now at last toppled crashing back into the dank soil whence it
had forced its way up into a place in the sun. Other noises, infrequent
and unexplainable, also drifted at long intervals from the mysterious
blackness. And in all the medley of night sounds not one was cheerful.
The burden of the jungle's cacophonic cantanta ever was the
same--despair, disaster, death.

Then came the fifteenth day. It dawned red, the sun fighting an
ensanguined battle with the heavy morning mists and throwing on the
faces of the early-rising travelers a sinister crimson hue. Before that
sun should rise again some of those faces were to be stained a deeper
red.

CHAPTER VII.

COLD STEEL

Some two hours after the start, while Knowlton and Tim loafed at the
fore end of the cabin, enjoying the comparative coolness of the early
day, another boat hove in sight up ahead--a longish craft manned by
eight paddlers and without a cabin.

As it came into view its bowman tossed his paddle in greeting. The
Peruvians ignored the salutation. The bowman, after shading his eyes and
peering at the flamboyant figure of Jose, resumed paddling without
further ceremony, evidently intending to pass in silence. But then McKay
arose, waved a hand, and told Jose to steer for the newcomers. Jose,
with a slightly sour look, gave the signal to Francisco, and the course
changed.

The other canoe slowed and waited. Its men watched the tall figure of
McKay. Tim and Knowlton scanned the bronzed faces of those men and liked
them at once. The p