e old man
was not of the same race as his companion, and when the two had
eaten, Compton asked the old chap how he came to wear a fez and
speak Arabic.

"It is the speech of my fathers, effendi," he said, turning his
smoke-bleared eyes on the young face.

"And how came it that an Arab was dwelling with the river-people?"
asked Muata. "Sooner would I have looked for an old wolf living at
peace with the goats."

The Arab withdrew his gaze from Compton and fastened it on the otter
outlined on the chiefs breast. With a skinny finger he pointed at
the chief.

"Allah is great," he said. "This is his work; and you will follow on
the track of the man-eaters."

"Save your speech, old man, for we work not for river-people; and
you forget the arrow that was loosed at us."

"This one loosed it in rage at the loss of his wife, mistaking you
for wolves; but, even so, it was as Allah willed, for the arrow
warned you of our presence."

"You speak in circles, my friend," said Compton. "Show us the finger
of Allah in this matter?"

"This," said the old man, solemnly, placing his finger on Muata's
breast, "is he they call the River Wolf, the son of the wise woman,
the warrior who will follow the track of the man-eaters."

"What know ye of the wise woman?" demanded the chief.

"We talked together, she and I, at the village that is burnt, of the
days when Muata was a babe in her arms, when these limbs of mine
were strong to do service for a white man, whose voice was the voice
of the young effendi."

"And where now is the wise woman, old man?"

"It is four days since the cannibals left. Tell me where they would
be, O warrior, for the forest is your hunting-ground."

Muata lowered his eyelids, and took the news of his mother's capture
by the cannibals in silence; but Compton was burning with excitement
at the reference to the white man.

"What white man was that you spoke of? I look for such a one."

"Men search not for the dead, effendi."

"But for signs of the dead--for the place of his burial, for the
book he wrote, for the things he left."

The old man nodded. "Allah is great. Is it not as I said; you have
been guided hither?"

"But tell me of the white man," said Compton, impatiently.

"We two, the wise woman and I, talked of the white man; and she
knows all. See, I am old, and the past is like a mist, through which
old memories pass quickly like shadows; but the wise woman can blow
the mist away. Find her, a