hook in front of the cart, and began to be extremely busy with the mules. The jingle of harness falling to the ground was heard, accompanied by more creaking and shivering. My interest was aroused.

“What are you doing, driver?” I asked sharply. I knew quite well this could not be right. If the mules were unharnessed how could we reach that most desirable little tin hotel? The driver answered in a voice considerably thicker and more incoherent than the last time I had heard it (greased lightning, I had observed, frequently has this effect upon the vocal cords):

“River’s full—cart can’t cross d’ drift to-night.”

“But the little tin—the hotel—?”

“Hotels d’ other side,” was the laconic response, and he continued to undo the mules. Harness fell around him like hail.

“But what are you going to do?” I faltered.

“Going to put d’ eisels into d’ stable,” he answered stolidly, indicating with his arm a mass of blackness on his left, that might have been either a hay-stack or a cathedral, “an’ shut me in wid dem. You better come saam, Miss.” He gave a drunken chuckle. I fingered my Colt, and that gave me courage to answer in a clear voice that betrayed no sign of the panic in my soul:

“Nonsense, driver! of course there must be some decent place for me to spend the night. Take me to it at once.”

He had all the mules loose, and holding each by a small head-rein they radiated from him like the rays of a black star of which the lantern in his hand was the scarlet centre. By its light I could see his stupid brutal face clearly, though I was hidden from his vision in the dimness of the cart. However he could recognise authority when he heard its note, and looking towards me answered with a faint shade of respect in his voice if not in his words:

“You got to take your choice, Miss. Come saam into d’ stable wid me and d’ mules or else sit in d’ cart all night wid d’ lions. We can’t cross d’ river.”

“Lions!” I stammered. “But there must be some place, somewhere for me to go to—a hut—a store—something!”

Such a desperate, horrible situation was incredible. The mules were shivering with the steam still rising from them and the driver grew impatient. Apparently he acknowledged a duty to them if not to me. He came close to the cart and spoke menacingly and finally into it.

“See yere: dis is d’ Umzingwani River. No hotels yere, oney plenty of lions, worst place in Africa for lions; dat’s why I’m going to shut me up with d’ eisels. See dat place over dere?” He pointed to another grim shadow that might have represented anything in this grim place of shades—“Baas O’Flynn and Baas Jones kept a store dere. Baas O’Flynn died of d’ jim-jams, and his grave is round back of d’ hut: and a lioness fetched Baas O’Flynn out from behind the counter one day and walked off wid him in front of two kaffirs. I tell you lions is thick round here. Dat’s why dey built a stable dis side for when d’ river’s full, and dat’s why I am going to shut me up wid d’ eisels. So now you better take your choice, Miss, d’ eisels and me—or d’ lions.”

I was silent in amazement and horror, petrified with apprehension; dew was on my forehead. The driver, supposing that I was making my choice, waited for a moment or so, then getting no answer, turned his mules and moved away amidst the jingling of headstalls, muttering and chuckling to himself:

“Ach! arlright den, I told you what, if you don’t come saam wid me!”

I watched his going with despair; but my dry tongue refused to call him back. It seemed to me there could be no worse horror than to spend the night shut in a stable with that brute and the mules. And yet—lions! My backbone became a line of ice.

But I would not recall him. I watched him staggering away from me, the lantern rays flickering between the dark bodies of the mules. They seemed to go a long way off before they reached the stable, but at last I descried the inside of a brick building, narrow and manger-lined. For one moment I had a glimpse of the mules nosing eagerly to their places, then the closing of a heavy door shut out the pale vision, a bar fell heavily into its place, and I was shut and bolted into the outer darkness: alone in a wild and lonely part of Africa.

Began then for me the strangest night of all my life. In the midst of the thick darkness there suddenly and unwarrantably appeared between the branches of trees taller than any I had seen on the whole journey a wraith-like new moon, white as a milk opal. It peered through the black trees like a ghost that has lost its soul and seeks for it in desolate places. It shed no light at all, but just hovered there, peering, paling the light of the stars, and etching into view things that had better have been left hidden. It outlined some white bones that lay in an apart place at the foot of a tree, making them glisten as if they were composed of silver. It revealed the stable crouching amongst the bush like a grey monster. It showed up a spectre-like kopje on the left that I had not known was there at all and that was unlike any kopje I had ever seen, bare as a glacier with neither stock nor stone on it, nothing but one malignant-looking tree perched on its summit, leafless and crooked, holding out a forked arm that beckoned me hideously.

It is not for nothing that a superstition exists purporting bad luck to those who see the new moon through trees. There is indeed something disquietingly sinister in the sight. My Irish heart beat wildly in my breast. I was all superstitious Celt at that moment—not a drop of calm, sane American anywhere about me. My shaking hand clutched at my revolver. I had heard or read somewhere of people shooting the moon, and I wondered vaguely whether it was upon occasions such as this that the dread deed was done. Afar a wail of infinite sadness and melancholy pierced and echoed through the silence. In months to come I was to learn to hear music in the hungry jackal’s dirge, but at that time it sounded to me like the cry of some despairing soul suffering the torments of everlasting fire.

I could not keep my eyes closed. Some mysterious force compelled me to open them again and again upon the scene of terrifying ghostliness. Also, when I shut them the rush of waters seemed to surround the cart, and I expected at any moment to find myself being swept away down the strong river. In reality, nothing moved, not even a leaf on a tree. All was still, silent as the dead under the watching moon; even the little chirping cries and noises of the grass insects were hushed, or swallowed up in the smooth swift sound of rushing power. Only far away the wailing tragic cry of the jackal found many an echo and response.

Hours passed that were centuries to me, sitting Buddha-like on the floor of the cart, stiff and motionless, clutching my revolver. The moon lingered long, seeming to cling to the branches in a vain effort to stay longer, but at last she sank despairingly, and once more the clearing above the drift on the Umzingwani River was wrapt in the blackness of the nethermost pit.

It was only then that I dared change my position a little. Feeling for the hoops of the cart-hood I very slowly dragged my agonised limbs upwards, until my head touched the top of the hood. Even so I could barely stand upright, and the exquisite pain of leaping blood circulating once more in my numbed limbs was almost more than I could bear. But as I stood so, Fear, full-armed, rushed upon me again, for in the sea of darkness round me, I