had ceased as if they had all died suddenly.
"We heard nothing more of it that night, but the next morning we found ourselves deserted. The black boys had decamped with all the luggage they could lay hand to. We held a council of war, Conrad, Selim and I. The half-caste was scared pink, but the pride of his white blood kept him carrying on.
"'What now?' I asked Conrad. 'We've our guns and enough supplies to give us a sporting chance of reaching the coast.'
"'Listen!' he raised his hand. Out across the bush-country throbbed again that haunting whisper. 'We'll go on. I'll never rest until I know what makes that sound. I never heard anything like it in the world before.'
"'The jungle will pick our bally bones,' I said. He shook his head.
"'Listen!' said he.
"It was like a call. It got into your blood. It drew you as a fakir's music draws a cobra. I knew it was madness. But I didn't argue. We cached most of our duffle and started on. Each night we built a thorn borna and sat inside it while the big cats yowled and grunted outside. And ever clearer as we worked deeper and deeper in the jungle mazes, we heard that voice. It was deep, mellow, musical. It made you dream strange things; it was pregnant with vast age. The lost glories of antiquity whispered in its booming. It centered in its resonance all the yearning and mystery of life; all the magic soul of the East. I awoke in the middle of night to listen to its whispering echoes, and slept to drcam of sky-towering minarets, of long ranks of bowing, brownskinned worshippers, of purple-canopied peacock thrones and thundering golden chariots.
"Conrad had found something at last that rivalled his infernal bugs in his interest. He didn't talk much; he hunted insects in an absent-minded way. All day he would seem to be in an attitude of listening, and when the deep golden notes would roll out across the jungle, he would tense like a hunting dog on the scent, while into his eyes would steal a look strange for a civilized professor. By Jove, it's curious to see some ancient primal influence steal through the veneer of a cold-blooded scientist's soul and touch the red flow of life beneath! It was new and strange to Conrad; here was something he couldn't explain away with his new-fangled, bloodless psychology.
"Well, we wandered on in that
mad search—for it's the white
man's curse to go into Hell to satisfy his
curiosity. Then in the gray light of an
early dawn the camp was rushed. There
was no fight. We were simply flooded
and submerged by numbers. They must
have stolen up and surrounded us on all
sides; for the first thing I knew, the
camp was full of fantastic figures and
there were half a dozen spears at my
throat. It rasped me terribly to give up
without a shot fired, but there was no
bettering it, and I cursed myself for not
having kept a better lookout. We should
have expected something of the kind,
with that devilish chiming in the south.
"There were at least a hundred of them, and I got a chill when I looked at them closely. They weren't black boys and they weren't Arabs. They were lean men of middle height, light yellowish brown, with dark eyes and big noses. They wore no beards and their heads were dose-shaven. They were dad in a sort of tunic, belted at the waist with a wide leather girdle, and sandals. They also wore a queer kind of iron helmet, peaked at the top, open in front and coming down nearly to their shoulders
