As they neared the base, two wildly-grappling forms loomed through the twilight. In a moment Haverly switched on the light of his lantern, and focussed its rays upon the combatants. Struggling desperately in the coils of a monstrous serpent was one of the fearsome wolf-men. Three of the reptile’s great glistening folds encircled the savage’s body; the mighty jaws gaped expectantly above him, while the beadlike eyes were fixed in a fascinating stare upon the unfortunate creature. “We can’t stand by and see him crushed to death by that brute,” cried the baronet impulsively, “even though he is a wolf-man.” “Best not to interfere,” returned the Yankee shortly. At that instant the wolf-man, attracted by the light, turned his head towards the two friends and raised his hands imploringly, while from his lips came another agonised scream. That settled the question for Seymour. Quick as thought he raised his rifle and fired. At the report the great, yawning head vanished, shattered to atoms, and the body, relaxing its grip of the savage, thrashed up the ravine as though still endowed with life. As it vanished into the gloom the wolf-man rose, rushed forward, and cast himself down at Seymour’s feet. “I’ve no small notion that we’ll strike trouble over this job,” said Haverly ominously, “and that before a great while either. What the Barnum we’re to do with this long-shanked freak I know no more’n Caesar.” “He may prove useful,” the baronet suggested. “He may,” was the Yankee’s unpromising answer, “but I guess the odds lie the other way. Hi, Pharaoh!”--addressing the cringing savage--“get up from there right now. You’re black enough without wiping your face in the mud.” As though conscious that he was addressed, the creature raised his head, and glared fiercely at Haverly. “Get up,” the latter repeated roughly; then, seizing the wolf-man by his girdle, jerked him to his feet. A baleful light flashed from the creature’s eyes, and, for an instant, it appeared as though he was about to spring at the millionaire’s throat, but he checked himself, and well it was for him that he did so. “He’s got neither knife nor spear,” Seymour said, “so he cannot be very dangerous.” “Umph!” Silas snorted, “I wouldn’t trust the brute out of sight. I guess we’ll have to keep a tight hand over him, or he’ll be settin’ a hull crowd of his pards on our trail in a brace of shakes.” “Gehari!” The harsh, guttural cry came from the wolf-man’s throat, and he beat his breast with his clenched hand. “Gehari!” he repeated, fixing his piercing eyes on Seymour’s face. “What’s he jawing about?” asked Silas. “Ayuti again,” replied the baronet. “However came these brutes to speak that language?” “I reckon it don’t matter a heap,” retorted the Yankee, “so’s we can turn it to our advantage.” “Gehari!” For the third time the word broke upon the ears of the two friends. “What the plague does he mean by his eternal ‘gehari’?” asked Haverly.