Croisset came down to him, his thin face shining white in the starlight.
There was no other sound save the excited beating of life in their own
bodies when Jean spoke.

"M'seur, our dogs howl like that only when some one is dead or about to
die," he whispered. "It was Woonga who gave the cry. He has lived for
eleven years and I have never known him to fail."

There was an uneasy gleam in his eyes.

"I must tie your hands, M'seur."

"But I have given you my word, Jean--"

"Your hands, M'seur. There is already death below us in the plain, or it
is to come very soon. I must tie your hands."

Howland thrust his wrists behind him and about them Jean twisted a thong
of babeesh.

"I believe I understand," he spoke softly, listening again for the
chilling wail from the mountain top. "You are afraid that I will
kill you."

"It is a warning, M'seur. You might try. But I should probably kill you.
As it is--" he shrugged his shoulders as he led the way down the
ridge--"as it is, there is small chance of Jean Croisset answering
the call."

"May those saints of yours preserve me, Jean, but this is all very