Max took in the situation at a glance. If CÆsar had come north from Makanda by way of the back-water, he had not passed their canoe on the Hidden River. Two courses lay open to Max: he might cross the back-water in CÆsar's canoe, and pursue his journey on foot; or he might take this canoe and go down to Crouch, about whom he was anxious. The latter was undoubtedly the wiser course to pursue. In the heart of Africa, one canoe is as good as another; and, besides, by taking CÆsar's canoe he would be paying off old scores.

Having come to this conclusion, he looked about him for a suitable way by which to approach the canoe. He had not taken one step in the right direction, when he discovered to his dismay that the reeds were growing in a bog, into which one leg sank deep before he was able to recover his footing on dry land.

Still, he had every reason to be hopeful. If the Portuguese and his party had disembarked at this place, there was clearly a way of getting into the canoe. For all that, search as he might among the reeds, he could not find it, and at last he retired to the top of the bank.

No sooner had he got there than he discovered that for which he had been looking. A tall tree had fallen in the forest, and the roots were half in the water. The canoe had been moored under the lee of this. On each side of the fallen tree the reeds grew so high that the trunk was half hidden from view.

This tree formed a sort of natural pier, or landing-stage, along which it was possible to walk. Max stepped upon the trunk, and walked towards the canoe. Fearing that if he jumped into it he would knock a hole in the bottom, he lowered himself to a sitting position, and then remembered that he had not untied the painter at the bows. He always looks upon his next action as the most foolish thing he ever did in his life. He left his rifle in the canoe, and returned along the tree-trunk to untie the bows.

It was then that he was seized from behind. Some one sprang upon him from out of the reeds. Two strong arms closed about his chest, and he was lifted bodily from off his feet.

Putting forth his strength, he managed to twist himself round, seizing his adversary by the throat.

He had been set upon by one of CÆsar's Arabs. The Portuguese himself was doubtless still searching in the jungle for Crouch and Max, and no doubt he had left this fellow in charge of his canoe. Fortunately, the man was not armed; otherwise, Max would have been murdered. As it was, he realized from the start that his life was in imminent danger.

The man was possessed of the strength of all his race. His arms, though thin, were sinewy, and his muscles stood out like bands of whip-cord as he strove to gain the upper hand. Max was at a disadvantage, since he wore boots; whereas the Arab with his bare feet had the better foot-hold on the trunk of the fallen tree. Still, even he could not retain his balance for long, with the young Englishman flying at his throat like a tiger. The man had a beard, and Max, laying hold of this, forced his head backwards, so that they both fell together into the mud.

During that fall Max's head struck the bows of the canoe. For a moment he was dazed, half stunned. He relaxed his hold of his opponent, and thereafter he lay at the mercy of the Arab.

If we make an exception of the Chinese, the Arab is in all probability the cruellest man we know of. He is possessed of an almost fiendish cunning. His courage no one will dispute. To his children he is a kind father; to those who know and understand him he is a good friend; he is one of the most hospitable men in the world. But to his enemies he is relentless. He has none of the barbarity of the savage races, like the Zulus or the Masai. He is refined, even in his cruelty. Above all, he is a man of brains.

Because of their craftiness, their cunning and their courage, the Arab races have existed from the very beginnings of time. We read in the most ancient history that exists--in the history of the Pharaohs--of how the Egyptian towns in the valley of the Nile were walled against the incursions of the Arabs. Long before the Persians came to Egypt, no man dared venture far into the desert because of the Bedouin bands. And that was when the world was in its cradle, when just the valleys of two rivers--the one in Asia and the other in Egypt--were able to produce the rudiments of the civilization of the future. That was, perhaps, eight thousand years ago.

Since then--and before then--the Arab has been feared. The Negro races have bowed down before him, as dumb animals obey a superior intelligence. In this, above all things, had the Portuguese been wise; he had formed his bodyguard of those men who for centuries have been the stern, implacable rulers of the great, mysterious continent.

Max never lost possession of his senses; he was only dazed. And, whilst in that condition, he was lifted in the strong arms of the Arab, and thrown bodily into the canoe. When he was sufficiently recovered to endeavour to rise to his feet, he found that he was in mid-stream, drifting rapidly towards the river. He looked about him for a paddle, and seeing none, turned his eyes to the bank. And there stood the Arab, in his mud-stained garments, his white teeth showing in his swarthy face in a broad, unholy grin. Moreover, in both hands, he held the paddles which he had taken from the canoe.

Max recognized, as in a flash, that his fate was in the hands of a greater Power than himself. He snatched up his rifle, and endeavoured to steer with the butt. That had the effect of turning the canoe a little, but the current was too strong, and he was borne onwards.

Twenty yards farther, and the canoe would turn the corner and shoot out into the river, where the rapids foamed and lashed. At one time the bows brushed the tall reeds which were growing from the water. Max, dropping his rifle, seized the only one of these that was within his grasp. He held it for no longer than a second--an agonizing moment that seemed eternity--and then the reed was drawn out by its roots from the soft mud beneath the water.

The canoe was launched into the rapids at a bound. The current struck it sideways, and sent it round like a top. For a moment it was like some blind, excited animal that knows not whither it means to go, and then it shot down-stream like an arrow from the bow.

Max became aware of a kind of singing in his head. This may have been caused by the blow which he had received, or else by the manner in which the canoe was now whirled round and round upon the tide. The whole scene about him became blurred and indistinct. The great, white-hot sky above him was like a sheet of fire. He saw the trees on either bank fly past like armies of dark, gigantic spectres. At such times as this, it is as if the brain becomes unhinged; we think of strange, and often foolish things, of no consequence soever. Max saw a large dragonfly, of all the colours in the rainbow. Even then he admired its beauty and coveted its wings. The latter thought was natural, but the first was strange. And the next thing he knew of was Crouch shouting and waving his arms upon the bank. In a few moments Max had shot down the river to the place where he had left the little captain, though it had taken him more than two hours to force his way to the back-water through the density of the jungle.

"Paddle!" Crouch was crying. "Paddle for your life! Bring her in to the bank."

Just then the canoe was steady, shooting downward like a dart. Max raised his hands to his lips and shouted back.

"I've no paddles!" he cried.

He saw Crouch break into the jungle. The little sea-captain threw himself into the thickets like a madman. Once again, only for an instant, Max caught sight of him. He was fighting his way down-stream along the river bank like some ferocious beast. The long arm of a creeper barred his way, and Crouch wrenched it from the tree to which it clung with a strength that was almost superhuman. And then he was lost to view.

Max looked down into the water, and saw at once that it would be impossible to reach the bank by swimming. He had never been a strong swimmer, and in such a current as this no one could hope to prevail. On hands and knees, he crawled to the other end of the canoe, and immediately the thing swung round again, like a gate upon its hinges.

He was now calm enough to think the matter out. If he tried to swim to the shore the odds would be a hundred to one against him. There was still a chance that the canoe might be driven into the bank. He was determined to keep his head, to be ready to spring ashore, should the opportunity occur, and lay hold upon the first thing that fell to his reach.

As he sat and waited, whilst the seconds flew, his heart sank within him. The river narrowed. Black, ugly-looking rocks sprang up, like living things in mid-stream, and before him opened the ravine.

He saw its great walls rising, smooth and sheer, on either side of the river, and fading away in the distance, in the thick haze of the steaming, tropic day. He was fascinated by the rocks. He marvelled every instant that the canoe was not dashed to atoms. The surface of the water was now white with foam, in the midst of which the black rocks glistened in the sunlight. The canoe would rush towards one of these, as some swift beast of prey hurls itself upon its victim; and at the eleventh hour it would be whipped aside to go dancing, leaping on.

The ravine was like one of the pits we read of in Dante's Inferno. Its walls were precipitous and white, glaring in the sunshine. This was the gate that guarded the Hidden Valley.

Max had a sensation of passing through a railway-cutting in an express train. Little objects upon the steep banks--perhaps straggling plants, sprung from seeds which had fallen from above--were blurred and indistinct, flashing past like may-flies in the sunlight. There was the same rattling noise in his ears, quite distinguishable from the roar of the water beneath his feet.

For a moment he buried his face in his hands. A hundred thoughts went galloping through his brain, not one of which was complete. One gave place to another; there was no gap between them; they were like the films on a cinematograph.

And then came a murmuring in his ears which was something apart from the rattling sound we have mentioned, and the loud roar of the rapids. He looked up, with a white face, and listened. It seemed his heart had ceased to beat, and breathing consisted of inspiration only. The murmuring grew into a roar, and the roar into a peal of thunder--the cataract was ahead!