EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
extended his hand. “Goodby, Gabula,” he said. “You are a brave man.”
Gabula did not take the offered hand of his master. “I am going with you,” he said, simply.
“Even though you realize that should we reach the bottom alive we may never be able to return?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot understand you, Gabula. You are afraid and I know that you wish to return to the village of your people. Then why do you insist on coming with me when I give you leave to return home?”
“I have sworn to serve you, Bwana, and I am a Batoro,” replied Gabula.
“And I can only thank the Lord that you are a Batoro,” said von Harben, “for the Lord knows that I shall need help before I reach the bottom of this: canyon, and we must reach it, Gabula, unless we are content to die by starvation.”
“I have brought food,” said Gabula. “I knew that you might be hungry and I brought some of the food that you like,” and, unrolling the small pack that he carried, he displayed several bars of chocolate and a few packages of concentrated food that von Harben had included among his supplies in the event of an emergency.
To the famished von Harben, the food was like manna to the Israelites, and he lost no time in taking advantage of Gabula’s thoughtfulness. The sharp edge of his hunger removed, von Harben experienced a feeling of renewed strength and hopefulness, and it was with a light heart and a buoyant optimism that he commenced the descent into the canyon. Gabula’s ancestry, stretching back through countless generations of jungle-dwelling people, left him appalled as he contemplated the frightful abyss into which his master was leading him, but so deeply had he involved himself by his protestations of loyalty and tribal pride that he followed von Harben with no outward show of the real terror that was consuming him.
The descent through the fissure was less difficult than it had appeared from above. The tumbled rocks that had partially filled it gave more than sufficient footing and in only
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