The advent of the adjutants produced a vivid impression on the minds of all three of our adventurers—more vivid, perhaps, upon Ossaroo than either of the others. To him they seemed like old friends who had come to visit him in his prison; and though it never occurred to the shikaree, that they could be in any way instrumental in obtaining his release, still the impression produced was one of a pleasant nature. He saw before him two creatures whose forms, however uncouth, were associated with the scenes of his earliest childhood; and he could not help a passing fancy, that the pair, that had thus unexpectedly made their appearance, might be the same old cock and hen he had so often seen roosted on the branches of a huge banyan tree, that overshadowed the bungalow in which he was born.

Of course this could be only fancy on the part of Ossaroo. Out of the thousands of storks, that annually make their migration from the plains of Hindostan to the northward of the Himalaya Mountains, it would have been a rare coincidence if the two that for years had performed the office of scavengers in the shikaree’s native village, should be identical with those now hovering above his head—for it was while they were yet upon the wing that Ossaroo had indulged in this pleasant speculation. Though scarce serious in his thought—and only entertaining it for an instant—he was nevertheless gratified by the sight of the two storks, for he knew they must have come from his native plains—from the banks of that glorious river in whose waters he longed once more to wet his feet.

The sight of the huge birds suggested to Caspar a different train of thought. As he beheld their immense wings, extended in slow but easy flight, it occurred to him that one or other of the great creatures might have the power to perform that task which had proved too much for the bearcoot; and for which the “kite” had been “flyed” in vain.

“Oh!” exclaimed he, as the idea came across his mind, “don’t you think, Karl, that either of those great creatures would be strong enough to carry the line aloft? They look as if they could lift even one of ourselves to the top of the cliff.”

Karl made no reply; though his silence was only caused by Caspar’s suggestion—which he was proceeding to ponder upon.

The young hunter continued: “If we could only catch one of them alive! Do you suppose they are going to alight? They look as if they would. What do you say, Ossaroo? You know more of these birds than we do.”

“Yees, youngee Sahib; ee speakee de true. Dey go for come down. You savey dey make long fly. Dey both weary on de wing—no able fly furder. ’Sides, ee see, here am de lake—water—dey want drinkee—want eat too. Dey sure come down.”

Ossaroo’s prediction was fulfilled, almost as soon as it was uttered. The birds, first one and then the other, jerked in their spread wings; and dropped down upon the shore of the lake—as already stated, not over twenty paces from the spot where the three waders were occupied among the leaves of the lilies.

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