"Got something tell you alone. Come out here."

When the two had gone to a spot a little distance from the cavern
entrance, where the light of the moon, now nearly set, enabled objects to
be seen with some distinctness, Maka took from inside his shirt a small
piece of clothing. "Look here," said he. "This belong to Davis."

The captain took the garment in his hand. It was a waistcoat made of
plaid cloth, yellow, green, and red, and most striking in pattern, and
Captain Horn instantly recognized it as the waistcoat of Davis, the
Englishman.

"He dead," said Maka, simply.

The captain nodded. He had no doubt of it.

"Where did you find it?" he asked.

"Sticking on rock," said the African. "Lots things down there. Some one
place, some another place. Didn't know other things, but know this.
Davis' waistcoat. No mistake that. Him wear it all time."

"You are a good fellow, Maka," said the captain, "not to speak of this
before the ladies. Now go and sleep. There is no need of a guard
to-night."

The captain went inside, procured his gun, and seated himself outside,
with his back against a rock. There he sat all night, without once
closing his eyes. He was not afraid that anything would come to molest