ominent warrior of the party
was the brother of that king, dusky, tall and a giant in stature.

A tribe living in a country as well watered as the Matto Grosso, is
sure to be well provided with the means of navigation, though the
explorers, when they first reached the neighborhood of the rapids,
deemed there was an unusual absence of such craft. A canoe, longer
even than that used by our friends in ascending from the Amazon, was
carried a short distance down the bank and launched in the Xingu. Five
of the warriors seized their long paddles and swung them with the skill
of veterans. They were accustomed to that kind of work, and sent the
craft up the current with much greater speed than would have been
suspected, even by those accustomed to see such work.

Two of the dusky occupants were furnished with bows and arrows, while
Waggaman carried his rifle. Thus every species of weapon known to the
Murhapas was in the boat.

King Haffgo sat at the stern, his brow dark and threatening, his arms
folded and his lips set. His thoughts were too deep for utterance and
no one ventured to disturb him. Though the pale countenance was
outwardly calm, yet a volcano was raging in that breast, hot and
furious enough to burst out and consume the barbarian.

Just in front of him, Ziffak was facing toward the prow, directing the
actions of the crew, though for a time little of that was required of
him. Waggaman was at the prow, silent, glum, scowling. He did not
speak for a long while, but, now and then, glanced at Ziffak. When he
did so, he was pretty sure to find the black eyes of the head chieftain
fixed upon him.

The two thoroughly distrusted each other. Waggaman knew why that
javelin had been driven through the body of his associate and, though
the convict felt little sorrow for the loss of his companion, yet he
hated the chieftain with a deadly hatred, well aware as he was that the
feeling was thoroughly reciprocated by Ziffak.

Whether King Haffgo suspected the truth cannot be known, nor is it of
importance to know. All the energy of his nature was concentrated in
the emotion of fury against Fred Ashman, who had committed the
unparalleled presumption of robbing him of his daughter; and even
against that lovely maiden he was so incensed that he stood ready to
bury his spear in her snowy bosom.

Though it may have seemed strange to Ashman that Ziffak had ordered him
to make all haste to the enchanted lake, instead of