The jungle, hitherto silent and lifeless, seemed, to his excited fancy, to be full of strange, ghostly sounds. Weird rustlings sounded amid the gleaming vegetation, but above all these noises came the sound of the relentless footsteps of his invisible pursuers. A choking sob rose in Seymour’s throat, but he crushed it down with a strong effort of will. It seemed so terrible that he, who had come scatheless through so many dangers, should meet his death amid these wilds, at the hands of the terrible creatures that inhabited the jungles. Yet, in spite of all, he was determined to sell his life dearly if the chance of a fight came to him, and with that intention he swung round suddenly, rifle at shoulder, and for the second time the report of his weapon broke the silence. At the sound a dark brown shadow leapt up from the shelter of the dense growth, and, with a choking sob, fell back again. It all happened too quickly for the baronet to catch more than a glimpse of the Thing, but, as he moved forward to discover what creature it was that had fallen to his aim, something flashed through the twilight. Startled, he pulled up, and the missile, humming past him, stuck quivering in the ground ten paces to the rear. _It was a great, broad-bladed spear!_ While yet the baronet stood hesitating, the wolfish howl he had heard before arose from the jungle around him. It rose, fell, and rose again, then died away in a series of snarling yelps that made Seymour’s blood run cold. What could these creatures be, he thought, that howled like wolves, and yet used spears? Once more that terrible chorus rose, until the whole underworld became hideous with the sound. At that Seymour turned and broke into a run, tearing through the jungle like one possessed. And after him, spectre-like, flitted a crowd of dusky figures, grim and menacing. CHAPTER VIII. THE ELK-HUNTERS. FOR some time after the departure of their friends, Wilson and Haverly sat yarning, the latter arousing the admiration of the engineer by his thrilling stories of train robberies and Indian fighting on the early railways of the States. Then their talk turned upon their absent comrades, and the American had many a tale to tell of Seymour’s daring in the face of dire peril. So the time passed pleasantly enough, until suddenly, in the midst of a particularly thrilling yarn, Haverly leapt to his feet and strode to the door. “What is it?” asked Wilson. “Listen!” was the reply. From somewhere in the jungle came a chorus of wolfish yelps, succeeded by a faint cry, “Help!” “It’s Seymour!” cried the engineer, and snatched up a rifle. Silas darted out on deck, revolver in hand. “Help!” The cry was repeated, this time much nearer than before. Quick as thought, Silas skimmed over the gangway, and leapt ashore, closely followed by the engineer. As their feet touched the shingle, some heavy body burst out of the jungle.