Next morning they started.

The corporal, three of the soldiers, and the two porters made up the escort.

Berselius, who was strong enough to walk a little way, began the journey on foot, but they had not gone five miles on their road when he showed signs of fatigue, and Adams insisted on him taking to the litter.

It was the same road by which FÉlix had led them, but it was very different travelling; where the ground had been hard underfoot it was now soft, and where it had been elastic it was now boggy; it was more gloomy, and the forest was filled with watery voices; where it dipped down into valleys, you could hear the rushing and mourning of waters. Tiny trickles of water had become rivulets—rivulets streams.

Away in the elephant country it was the same, the dry river-bed where they had found the carcass of the elephant, was now the bed of rushing water. The elephant and antelope herds were wandering in clouds on the plains. A hundred thousand streams from Tanganyika to Yandjali were leaping to form rivers flowing for one destination, the Congo and the sea.

On the second day of their journey, an accident happened; one of the porters, released for a spell from bearing the litter, and loitering behind, was bitten by a snake.

He died despite all Adams’s attempts to save him, and, leaving his body to be buried by the leopards, they passed on.

But the soldiers, especially the corporal, took the matter strangely. These bloodthirsty wretches, inured to death and thinking nothing of it, seemed cast down, and at the camping place they drew aside, chattered together for a few minutes, and then the corporal came to Berselius and began a harangue, his eyes rolling toward Adams now and then as he proceeded.

Berselius listened, spoke a few words, and then turned to Adams.

“He says you have brought something with you that is unlucky, and that unless you throw it away, we shall all die.”

“I know what he means,” replied Adams; “I have brought a relic from that village by the Silent Pools. I shall not throw it away. You can tell him so.”

Berselius spoke to the man who still stood sullenly waiting, and who was opening his mouth to continue his complaints, when Adams seized him by the shoulders, turned him round, and with a kick, sent him back to his companions.

“You should not have done that,” said Berselius; “these people are very difficult to deal with.”

“Difficult!” said Adams. He stared at the soldiers who were grouped together, slapped the Mauser pistol at his side, and then pointed to the tent.

The men ceased muttering, and came as beaten dogs come at the call of their master, seized the tent and put it up.

But Berselius still shook his head. He knew these people, their treachery, and their unutterable heartlessness.

“How far are we from the river now?” asked Adams, that night, as they sat by the fire, for which the corporal by some miracle of savagery had found sufficient dry fuel in the reeking woods around them.

“Another two days’ march,” replied Berselius, “I trust that we shall reach it.”

“Oh, we’ll get there,” said Adams, “and shall I tell you why? Well, we’ll get there just because of that relic I am carrying. God has given me it to take to Europe. To take to Europe and show to men that they may see the devilment of this place, and the work of Satan that is being carried out here.”

Berselius bowed his head.

“Perhaps you are right,” said he, at last, slowly and thoughtfully.

Adams said no more. The great change in his companion stood as a barrier between him and the loathing he would have felt if Berselius had been still himself.

The great man had fallen, and was now very low. That vision of him in his madness by the Silent Pools had placed him forever on a plane above others. God had dealt with this man very visibly, and the hand of God was still upon him.

Next day they resumed their journey. The soldiers were cheerful and seemed to have forgotten all about their grievance, but Berselius felt more uneasy than ever. He knew these people, and that nothing could move them to mirth and joy that was not allied to devilment, or treachery, or death.

But he said nothing, for speech was useless.

Next morning when they woke they found the soldiers gone; they had taken the porter with them, and as much of the provisions as they could steal without disturbing the white men.

“I thought so,” said Berselius.

Adams raged and stormed, but Berselius was perfectly calm.

“The thing I fear most,” said he, “is that they have led us out of our road. Did you notice whether we were in the track for the last mile or so of our journey yesterday?”

“No,” replied Adams, “I just followed on. Good God! if it is so we are lost.”

Now, the rubber road was just a track so faint, that without keeping his eyes on the ground where years of travel had left just a slight indication of the way, a European would infallibly lose it. Savages, who have eyes in their feet, hold it all right, and go along with their burdens even in the dark.

Adams searched, but he could find no track.

“We must leave all these things behind us,” said Berselius, pointing to the tent and litter. “I am strong enough to walk; we must strike through the forest and leave the rest to chance.”

“Which way?” asked Adams.

“It does not matter. These men have purposely lost us, and we do not know in the least the direction of the river.”

Adams’s eyes fell on a bundle wrapped in cloth. It was the relic.

He knelt down beside it, and carefully removed the cloth without disturbing the position of the skull.

He noted the direction in which the eye-holes pointed.

“We will go in that direction,” said he. “We have lost ourselves, but God has not lost us.”

“Let it be so,” replied Berselius.

Adams collected what provisions he could carry, tied the skull to his belt with a piece of rope taken from the tent, and led the way amidst the trees.

Two days later, at noon, still lost, unutterably weary, they saw through the trees before them a sight to slay all hope.

It was the tent and the litter just as they had left them.

Two days’ heart-breaking labour had brought them to this by all sorts of paths.

They had not wandered in a circle. They had travelled in segments of circles, and against all mathematical probability, had struck the camp.

But the camp was not tenantless. Someone was there. A huge man-like form, a monstrous gorilla, the evil spirit that haunted the forest, bent and gray and old-looking, was picking the things about, sniffing at them, turning them over.

When they saw him first, he was holding the tent-cloth between both his hands just as a draper holds a piece of cloth, then he ripped it up with a rending sound, flung the pieces away, and began turning over the litter.

He heard the steps of the human beings, and sat up, looking around him, sniffing the air. He could not see them, for he was purblind.

The human beings passed on into the terrible nowhere of the forest.

When you are lost like this, you cannot rest. You must keep moving, even though you are all but hopeless of reaching freedom.

Two days later they were still lost, and now entirely hopeless.

To torment their hearts still more, faint sun-rays came through the leaves overhead.

The sun was shining overhead; the sun they would never see again. It was the very end of all things, for they had not eaten for twelve hours now.

The sun-rays danced, for a breeze had sprung up, and they could hear it passing free and happily in the leaves overhead.

Berselius cast himself down by a huge tree and leaned his head against the bark. Adams stood for a moment with his hand upon the tree-bole. He knew that when he had cast himself down he would never rise again. It was the full stop which would bring the story of his life to a close.

He was standing like this when, borne on the breeze above the tree-tops, came a sound, stroke after stroke, sonorous and clear. The bell of a steamboat!

It was the voice of the Congo telling of Life, Hope, Relief.

Berselius did not hear it. Sunk in a profound stupor, he would not even raise his head.

Adams seized his companion in his arms and came facing the direction of the breeze. He walked like a man in his sleep, threading the maze of the trees on, on, on, till before him the day broke in one tremendous splash of light, and the humble frame-roof of M’Bina seemed to him the roofs of some great city, beyond which the river flowed in sheets of burnished gold.