Even he himself could now here and there make out, by the aid of his light, a broken twig, trampled ferns and down-crushed grass. Once he distinguished a blood-stain on a limb--fresh blood, not coagulated. A groan burst from between his chattering teeth. He turned his light on the grass beneath. All at once a blade moved. "Oh, thank God!" he wheezed. "They passed here only a few minutes ago. They can't be far now!" Something drew his attention. He snatched at a sapling. "Hair!" Caught in a roughness of the bark a few short, stiff, wiry hairs, reddish-brown, were twisted. "_One of the Horde?_" he stammered. A lightning-flash of memory carried him back to Madison Forest, more than a year ago. He seemed to see again the obeah, as that monster advanced upon the girl, clutching, supremely hideous. "The hair! The same kind of hair! In the power of the Horde!" he gasped. A mental picture of extermination flashed before his mind's eye. Whether the girl lived or died, he knew now that his life work was to include a total slaughter of the Anthropoids. The destruction he had already wrought among them was but child's play to what would be. And in his soul flamed the foreknowledge of a hunt a l'outrance, to the bitter end. So long as one, a single one of that foul breed should live, he would not rest from killing. "Master! This way! Here, master!" The voice of Zangamon sent him once more crashing through the jungle, after his questing guides. Again he fired the signal-shot, and now with the full power of his lungs he yelled. His voice rang, echoing, through the black and tangled growths, startling the night-life of the depths. Something chippered overhead. Near-by a serpent slid away, hissing venomously. Death lurked on every hand. Stern took no thought of it, but pressed forward, shouting the girl's name, hallooing, beating down the undergrowth with mad fury. And here, there, all about he flung the light-beam. Perhaps she might yet hear his hails; perhaps she might even catch some distant glimmer of his light, and know that help was coming, that rescuers were fighting onward to her. Silent, lithe, confident even among these new and terribly strange conditions, the two men of the Folk slid through the jungle. No hounds ever trailed fugitive more surely and with greater skill than these strange, white barbarians from the underworld. Through all his fear and agony, Stern blessed their courage and their skill. "Men, by God! They're _men!_" he muttered, as he thrashed his painful way behind them in the night. Of a sudden, there somewhere ahead, far ahead in the wilderness--a cry? Allan stopped short, his heart leaping. Again he fired, and his voice set all the echoes ringing. A cry! He knew it now. There could be no mistake--_a cry!_