Evening approached, we ate our supper and then sat on the hill above,
sounding our horns. Their vibrant echoes rang from mountain to mountain
and returned to us clear and sweet.
Way down below us, where a purple haze hung over the deep ravine, we
faintly heard the answering hounds. In their voices we caught the dog's
response to his master and friend. It said, "We have him. Come! Come!"
We blew the horns again. The elf-land notes returned again and again,
and with them came the call of the faithful hound, "We are here. Come!
Come!"
Now, there was a pitiful plight. No sane man would venture down such a
chasm, impenetrable with thorns, and night descending. So we built a
beacon fire and waited for dawn. All during the long dark hours we
heard the distant appeal of the hounds, and we slept little.
At the first rays of dawn we took a hasty meal, fed our horses, and
stripping ourselves of every unnecessary accoutrement, we prepared to
descend the canyon. Our bows and quivers we left behind because it
would have been impossible to drag them through the jungle. Ferguson
carried only his Colt pistol; I took my hunting knife.
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