CHAPTER THIRTY.
THE DOUBLE DECOY.
It was some considerable time before he heard any response to cheer him, or observed any sign that indicated the presence or proximity of an animal.
He repeated his bark many times, with intervals of silence between--and was about yielding to the conviction, that not only the open ground, but the bushes around it, were going to draw blank.
He had uttered his last bark, with all the alluring intonation that he could throw into the sound; and was about starting to his feet to proceed elsewhere, when just then the real cry of the kakur responded to his feigned one--apparently coming from out the thicket on the opposite side of the glade.
The sound was heard only faintly, as if the animal was at a great distance off; but Caspar knew that if it was a response to his call-- which he believed it to be--it would soon draw nearer.

He lost no time, therefore, in giving utterance to a fresh series of barks of the most seductive character; and then once more strained his ears to listen for the reply.
Again the barks of the kakur came back upon the breeze--repeated serially, and so resembling his own, that had Caspar not known that they proceeded from the throat of a deer, he might have fancied them to be echoes.

He did not allow many seconds to elapse before barking again, and again, with an equal straining at allurement.
This time, to the surprise of the young hunter, there was no response.
He listened, but not a sound came back--not even an echo.
He barked again, and again listened.

As before, silence profound, unbroken.
No--it was not unbroken.

Although it was not the call of the kakur, another sound interrupted the stillness--a sound equally welcome to the ear of the young hunter.