He smiled, for he recognized Ariel on her way to the upper end of the village.

He knew on the instant what _that_ meant.
Then the penetrating gaze outlined the figure of a man, sneaking like a wild animal, down the river bank.

He was seen only faintly, but he was equally sure of _his_ identity.

It was Burkhardt, one of the hated white men that had poisoned the mind of his brother and caused him to forget he was a Murhapa, whose word should be sacred.
An exultant gleam came into the dusky face, as he stole forward in the same direction that the convict took.

The action of the miscreant showed that he was following some prey, and who was it as likely to be as the white man that was abroad and was held in such detestation by the scoundrel?
Burkhardt, in one respect, acted precisely as did his intended victim.
The latter was so absorbed in his own delicious thoughts, that, after that hurried glance around him, he did not once again look to the rear.
So Burkhardt, never once dreaming that he was under surveillance, kept his gloating eyes fixed on the shadowy figure in front, without looking to see that while the man was hunting the tiger another tiger was not hunting him.
Being a slight distance to the rear of the convict, Ziffak could not see the form in front of him with equal distinctness, but the faint glimpse which he caught was all he needed.
Thus the strange procession passed up the western bank of the calmly flowing Xingu.