Into the jungle they struck, with Chako in the lead as a guide. This part of the journey he had correctly estimated and at dusk one day he signaled for a halt. “What is it?” asked Mr. Duncan. “The African camp, or village, that he escaped from,” said the sergeant. “We are here at last!” CHAPTER XXIII THE ATTACK They were in a dense part of the jungle. On all sides of them were immense trees, growing so close together that one could see only a little way in either direction. Between the trees grew a great tangle of vines and pendant moss, making an almost impassable barrier, save to an elephant or buffalo. They had followed a rude trail, that, at times, was almost lost sight of. But Chako seemed to know the road by which he had escaped, and led on unerringly. Occasionally they would come to a swamp in which there was danger of sinking to one’s hips. But now they were near to the place where they hoped to rescue the captives. “What’s to be done?” asked Blake, as they came to a halt in the midst of the now almost twilight darkness in the dense jungle. “Rush right in and rescue my daughter and her friends!” cried Mr. Duncan. He actually started forward, catching up one of the guns carried by a native bearer. “Hold on! That won’t do!” cried the sergeant. “We must map out a plan of campaign. To rush in now would be the worst kind of folly. They would either overwhelm us, for they far outnumber us, or it would bring about the very thing we are trying to avoid----” “You mean they might--might do something to the captives?” asked Blake. “That’s it,” the sergeant went on. “We’ve got to use strategy in this attack. And one of the first things we’ve got to do is to get to some place where we can camp without the noise penetrating to the village. Then we can make our plans.” Chako indicated that the African camp was still some little distance in advance, but added the information that scouts from it might be anywhere in the jungle, and might discover the presence of the rescuers and give the alarm. “Then back we go,” decided the sergeant. “We’ll camp at the last spring we passed and have supper. Lucky we’ve got the fresh meat we killed this noon, or the natives would go hungry.” For on the march that day C. C. had managed to kill a big antelope for food. They feasted--at least the natives did, for they could eat no matter what impended--but the whites were too anxious to enjoy the meal. No unnecessary noise was made, for, though they were some distance from the village, there was no way of telling when black scouts might be about. “I think a night attack will be best,” said the sergeant, when it had all been talked over. “That will take them most by surprise and give them the least chance of harming those we have come to save.” “Do you mean attack to-night?” asked Blake;