Part 25 (1/2)

Byron.

Scene: Night on an unknown river, which, dark and deep and sluggish, is rolling onwards to the distant ocean through a wild and beautiful district in the interior, nay, but ill the very centre of Africa. The centre it may well be called, for it is near the equator, and hundreds of miles from the Indian Ocean. Night on the river, but not darkness.

A round moon has risen, the clouds, dazzled by its splendour, have parted to let it pa.s.s; its light is flooding hill and dell and forest, and changing the river itself to--apparently--a moving flood of molten gold.

Light, but not darkness. Night, but not silence either. Were it possible for any one to pa.s.s swiftly and unseen along the banks of the unknown river at such an hour and on such a night as this, what sights he would see, what sounds would fall upon his listening ear! Come with me in imagination! Take heed of those rocks; they are slippery at the edge, for the rainy season is not yet past. To fall into the stream would mean an ugly death, were you even as good a swimmer as the gallant Webb. There are no signs of life in the water, it is true, but the plash of your fall would raise a score of awful heads above it; the crocodiles would be upon you with lightning speed, and rend you from limb to limb.

Peer over the cliff just there. What is that lying on the mud close by the river? Is it the trunk of some dead tree? Drop a pebble on it.

See; it moves off into the river and slowly disappears--a crocodile.

Hark to that horrible sound! it makes the very ”welkin” ring,--a loud, discordant, coughing, bellowing roar. It is the lion-king of the forest. He loves not the moonlight. It baulks him of his prey; so there is anger in that growl. But you hardly can tell whence it comes; at one moment, it sounds over yonder among the rocks, next, down in that lonesome ravine, and next, in the forest behind you.

Look at those great birds. They fly so closely over our heads that their mighty wings overshadow us for a moment, and we can hear the rustling, creaking sound made by their feathers. There is something lying dead in the valley beyond the hill, and these are vultures going to gorge by the moonlight.

Two great necks are raised like poles behind a rock as the birds fly in that direction. Giraffes, who have been sleeping--there in the open, their heads leaning on the rocks, their ears doing duty even in slumber, but ready if danger draws near to--

”Burst like whirlwind o'er the waste, To thunder o'er the plain.”

In yonder, beneath that flowery, ferny bank, is the leopard's cave--the tiger cat. If you went near enough you would see her fiery eyes, and hear a low, ominous growl that would chill you to the spine.

Yes, wild beasts and wild birds keep close to-night; for a little while only; when the deer and the antelope steal down to the river, they will come forth, and there will be yells and shrieks of anger, pain, and terror, and an awful feast to follow.

Behold those lordly elephants; how they trumpet and roar! They are excited about something.

Something unusual has happened, or they would not be there at this hour.

Ha! There is a boat on the river, creeping up under the shadow of the rocks. What mystery is this? There are white men in it, too, and right merrily they are paddling along. But never before have the waters of this unknown river been stirred by oar of European.

For not only is the country all around here a wild one, but it has the name, at all events, of being inhabited by a race of savages that are never at peace, who are born, live, and die on the war-path--the Logobo men.

”Couldn't we go a little nearer?” said Harvey, who sat in the stern sheets near the tall Arab Zona, who was steering, Kenneth and Archie having an oar each.

”Couldn't we go a little nearer and have a shot at that elephant?”

”No, no, no,” cried Zona, hastily; ”we must keep in the shade, gentlemen. Even the moon is not our friend, pleasant though her light be. But the sound of your rifle would raise the Logobo men, and a thousand poisoned arrows would soon be whistling round our heads. We could not escape.”

”Before morning,” said Kenneth, ”according to your reckoning, my good Zona, we should be well through the Logobo country, and among friends?”

”True,” replied Zona; ”we will be among friends all the way to the land of gold, I trust.”

”The land of gold!” exclaimed Kenneth; ”what a fascinating phrase!

Zona, when we met you in Zanzibar our lucky stars must have been in the ascendant.”

Zona gave a little laugh.

”It is the land of gold,” he said, ”that we are going to, it is true; but no man that ever yet tried brought that gold down to the coast.”

”And why, my friend?”

”Why? I cannot tell you all the reasons why. They say the gold is guarded by evil spirits, that the hills where it is to be found are encircled by giant forests, by terrible swamps, the breath of which is more feared by the Arab than spear of savage foeman.”