e's Muata and the other boy, sir?"

"Gone after a red bush-pig. I think I hear them breaking back."

They heard the hunting cry of the jackal, then a sound of crashing,
and an animal, brick-red--a strange hue for the sombre shadows of
the forest--darted into view, and seeing them, halted with snout
lowered, and the bristling neck curving up grandly to the high
shoulders. A moment it stood there facing them, defiant, its little
eyes gleaming, its tusks showing white, and the foam dripping from
its jaws. A moment, and then it sank to the ground, and was hidden
under a writhing mound of coils. Swift as an arrow the python had
swooped at the prey, fastened on the neck with its jaws, and then
overwhelmed it by the avalanche of its enormous length. There
followed a sickening crunch of bones, and next a wild cry from the
jackal, repeated by Muata and the river-man.

Mr. Hume advanced with his Express ready, but Muata, running round,
begged him not to fire.

"It is the father of the wood-spirits. He took the red pig instead
of one of us."

"Not for the want of trying," said Venning. "He nearly had us both,
Muata."

"But he took the pig," said Muata. "It is his hunt, and it means
well for us that he took the pig."

"It certainly does; but how are we to get our guns, if we don't
shoot him?"

Muata placed his weapon on the ground and advanced. The python had
completed its work so far. Two vast coils were round the crushed
body of the boar; the head rested on the upmost coil, with the eyes
fixed on the intruders, and the rest of the body reached away into
the shadows.

Muata advanced with the palms of his hands open, and his eyes
downcast, as if he were in the presence of some great chief. Yet he
showed no fear, never faltered, but walked up to the guns, picked
them up within a foot of the spot where the length of the serpent
had formed a loop, and returned. The lidless eyes watched, but not a
coil moved.

"It is well," said Muata, gravely, as he returned the rifles. "He
means well by us."

"You would not have said that if you had been up the tree with us,
and with him," grumbled Compton.

"The tree is taboo. I said it."

"Do you mean that he lives here? I should think he would starve."

"That would be your word, young great one. But, see, look at my
father there. He is big, very big, very heavy, very old. He does not
care to move far. Yet he is wise. So he has chosen his hunt; and he
has chosen well."

"I c