The negro seized the rope and came up it like a monkey, leaving the body of poor old Grumpah where he fell. All four now struck off through the woods to the northward. The cries and the pounding of a tomtom were heard from the south, and then a wild scream, as it was evident the blacks had determined on a charge across the open. "They'll be on us in about five minutes," panted Gifford, looking back over his shoulder. "What in the world are we to do? We must leave the path." They crushed their way through the thickets a dozen yards or so, each man fighting as if the leaves would drown him, when Malcolm pointed with his finger. There, towering straight up to the sky, was the trunk of a huge tree. At the roots was a small opening, large enough to all appearances for a man to squeeze his way in. No sooner had he seen it than the black darted toward it on hands and knees like a rabbit, and before the others could tell what he was going to do, nothing but his heels were to be seen. Gifford turned and reached up overhead. With the stroke of his knife he clipped off the top of one of the overhanging bushes. "In with you!" he cried--"in with you! That tree trunk is nothing but a chimney. It will hold us all." Malcolm and his father and lastly the lanky Englishman crawled into the damp-smelling interior, and Gifford pulled the ends of the branch in after him, so that the spreading leaves would hide the opening. Now the cries sounded all about. On the path not forty feet away a crowd of natives went by on the rush, the ornaments on their knees jingling as they ran. Crouching in the crowded space the fugitives waited breathlessly. They heard more cries, and once some one had passed through the bushes so close to them that they could hear the swishing of the leaves. It had grown so dark that perhaps their footprints could not be seen; their hiding-place was not discovered. Now a consultation was held. "I wish old Grumpah was here," said Clifford. "He knows the country." The black whose teeth were chattering was mumbling something. "What's that?" asked Gifford, turning to him. "Ribber not far off," the man replied. Gifford spoke to him in his own language, and then he addressed the others in a whisper. "This boy was a slave to the Bangwalis," he said. "He tells me there is a stream to the northward. We might make it and find a canoe at the banks. It's our only chance for life." "Will we have to leave the treasure behind?" asked Mr. McFee, hoarsely. "Confound the treasure!" responded Gifford. "It may be the death of us yet. We have enough white stones to make us rich."