The heavy silence of mid-day was upon the woods, and the four assassins crept noiselessly towards the spot where the baby was spasmodically conversing with its mother and, possibly, its father—who would be doubly dangerous when protecting his wife and offspring.
Croft's heart was beating furiously, Stringer's eyebrows and moustache were bristling with excitement, and the two negroes were showing a very evident desire for flight. One can understand the emotions of the party, for this was their first attempt at big game stalking.
Presently, through a sheltering screen of branches and leaves, they had their first vision of what might be called the domestic side of gorilladom.
A young gorilla was seated on the ground, enjoying a meal of berries; whilst a yard or so further away sat its mother, who was also having lunch. Stringer says that it was a pretty and interesting sight. I believe him.
With a quiet courage, born possibly of intense curiosity, Stringer, Croft and the two natives lay down on the earth, hardly daring to breathe, their guns in readiness, determined to wait awhile—and watch. . . .
So far, there were no signs of the dread paterfamilias, but before a couple of minutes had passed, the bush moved and the huge husband waddled forth. He looked a trifle uneasy, as if sensing some vague, antagonistic presence, and his wicked and cunning little eyes seemed to search the surrounding foliage in bloodthirsty anticipation of slaughter.
After glancing round at him, his wife called her child, with a low guttural cluck. It ran over to her immediately and flung its arms round her neck, its legs round her body, and its face against her chest—the very picture of human infantile shyness!
Apparently, the female gorilla's sensitiveness to danger would shame the most coy and retiring woman ever created.
Without waiting for a word of real warning from her lord and master, she gave vent to a loud scream and took to instant flight. Meanwhile, the male protector erected himself to his full height. He then let up a deep, challenging roar of defiance and smote at his chest with clenched fists, as if beating himself into a fury.
Both Stringer and Croft afterwards stated that, at this point, the powers of human reason and kindliness forsook them. They became mere machines behind the gleaming barrels of the guns—sportsmen, relentlessly driven into action by the spirit of the chase—or the spirit of self-defence—or, what you will.