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For the third time the sound was repeated.

There was nothing strange in it – at least, to ears familiar with the voices of a Jamaica forest. It was the call of a common yet peculiar bird – the solitaire . The only thing strange was to hear it at that hour of the night. It was not the time when the soft and flute-like note of the solitaire should fall upon the ear of the forest wanderer. Hearing it at that hour was by no means strange to Chakra. It was not that which had startled him from his seat, and caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the platform. On the contrary, it was because he knew that what he had heard was not the note of the solitaire , but a counterfeit call from his confederate, Adam!

Chakra’s private slogan was different – more mournful and less musical. It was an imitation of that melancholy utterance heard at night from the sedgy shores of the dark lagoon – the cry of the wailing bittern.

With a small reed applied to his lips, the Coromantee produced an exact imitation of this cry, and then remained silent, awaiting the result.

At the bottom of the ravine could be heard a murmur of voices, as if several men were together, talking in guarded tones. Following this came a sound of scratching against the stones, and a rustling of branches, each moment becoming more distinct. Shortly after, the form of a man emerged out of the shadowy cleft, stepping cautiously upon the platform. Another followed, and another, until six in all stood upon the summit of the rock.

“Dat you, brodder Adam?” said Chakra, stepping forward to receive the first who presented himself at the head of the sloping path.

“Ya – ya! Am it Chakra?”

“Dat same ole nigga.”

“All right, kommarade. We’ve see yar signal as soon as it war hoisted. We wan’t long a comin’, war we?”

“Berry quick. A didn’t ’speck ye fo’ half an hour mo’.”

“Well, now we’re hya, what’s the game? I hope dar’s a good big stake to play for! Our stock of stuff wants remplenishin’ berry badly. We haven’t had de chance of a job fo’ more dan a month. We’re a’most in want o’ wittles!”

“Wittles!” exclaimed the myal-man, laying a scornful emphasis on the word. “Dar’s a ting for ye do dis night dat’ll gib ye mo’ dan wittle – it gib you wealth – ebbery one ob ye. Whugh!”

“Good!” ejaculated Adam, simultaneously with a chorus of like exclamations; “glad to hear dat ere bit o’ intelligence. Am it dat ere little job you speak me ’bout last time I see you? Dat it, ole humpy?”

“Dat same,” laconically answered Chakra, “only wi’ dis diffurence,” added he; “dat a call um de big job in’tead of de little un.”

“Big or little,” rejoined the other, “we’ve come ready to do it – you see we hab?”

The speaker, who appeared to be the leader of the party who accompanied him, pointed to the others as he made this remark.

The hint was scarce regarded by Chakra. Notwithstanding the murky gloom that enveloped the forms of Adam and his companions, the myal-man could see that they were all armed and equipped, though in the most varied and uncouth fashions. The weapons of no two were alike. One carried an old musket, red with rust; another a fowling-piece, in like condition. Others were provided with pistols, and nearly all had long knives, or machetés . Thus provided, it was scarce probable that the job for whose execution Chakra had summoned them could be one of a pacific character.