On the second afternoon Miguel found the fire where David had roasted the armadillo. That encouraged him. He was on the right track. And he redoubled his efforts, as does the hound when the scent grows hotter. His eyes glowed with a strange fire at the thought that he might at any moment catch sight of his quarry. David had learned the truth of the saying that bad luck is apt to grow worse; Miguel had never even heard it, but that did not exempt him from its application. What both had yet to learn was that luck, particularly bad luck, was only too often the result of some act for which they were fully responsible. The beating Miguel had received and the narrowly avoided drowning had been bad enough; but worse was to come. He awoke on the third morning to discover that his remaining food supply had disappeared during the night, and the completeness with which it had vanished made it evident that a colony of ants had done the work. That was exasperating, but there was game to be shot with arrows, so the situation was not serious. After that came the realization that the search was extending over a wider territory and greater period of time than he had expected. And he began to wonder if he should find David, after all. It was that night, however, that he felt the merciless judgment of the forest in all the impartial rigor which was its law. Those who sought to ferret out its secrets must pay the penalty and Miguel was no exception. It swooped down upon him in the same guise it had assumed when it fell upon David, and while his teeth beat a tattoo, or as the hot blood coursed throbbingly through his veins, he began to comprehend the seriousness of the mission on which he had embarked, and to wonder if the purpose was worth the cost. The fever ran its usual course. Miguel wandered about in a dazed condition and when there was finally a lull in the onslaught he found himself in an unenviable predicament. He too was lost, and for the first time in his life. With that realization came the feeling of utter loneliness. Never before had he felt so completely forsaken, so bewildered, so hopeless. He longed for the sound of a voice, a glimpse of a friendly face, or the touch of a sympathetic hand. It was terrible, this being lost and alone in the silent, heartless jungle that gave no quarter, that knew not the words pity or mercy. Gaunt spectres rose on every side; hideous naked Indians pierced him through with their poisoned darts; serpents struck with envenomed fangs; and jaguars of enormous size crouched behind each tree-trunk for the fatal spring. It had always been thus. It would always be thus. The fever-crazed brain of a lone man, lost in the tropical jungle, could conjure pictures without end.