This was not thick. Clusters of undergrowth here and there, but for the most part it was open below. Strange trees of a species unknown to him afforded an intermittent shade, and here and there an open space, growing tall grass nearly his own height, had to be crossed. He moved carefully, always keeping the sun on one shoulder, always being careful to note any peculiarity of bough or stem, for he had no mind to lose himself. Then suddenly the whole aspect of the vegetation changed.
Only a ridge had effected the sharp demarcation of this change, a low ridge surmounted by a few rocks, yet affording no extent of view on either hand. But here in front the vegetation was thick and profuse, and in parts tangled. Cool and shady, however, and altogether inviting it looked, and Wagram made up his mind to penetrate it, though not to any great depth.
With his wandering a sense of freedom seemed to return to him. It was a relief at any rate to get a change from that gruesome, depressing, savage town, with its repulsive and scowling inhabitants. Here at any rate he was alone with Nature—and there was a certain soothing solemnity in the thought. Then for the first time he noticed an utter absence of life. Nothing moved; no insects flew humming by; no birds piped. Turn his glance which way he would no movement met or distracted it. He was in a dead forest to all intents and purposes, as far as its accompaniment of animal or bird or even insect life was concerned. It began to look a little eerie.
Still, with many a glance back, to make sure of being able to retrace his steps at will, he moved on. Some irresistible influence seemed to be drawing him on, and with every step a consciousness came upon him of that. Moreover, it seemed that he was no longer alone. Could it be that he was being followed—watched—that the freedom with which he had been allowed to come hence was no freedom at all, but that spying eyes had been upon him all the time, that stealthy steps had dogged his own? And yet, looking back, there was no sign of anything living, let alone anything human, and, stranger still, the sense of a haunting presence was in front rather than behind—a presence drawing him on.
A wave of recoil swept over his being, and he would have returned; yet, strong-minded and of a robust faith as he was, such return under such circumstances, it seemed to Wagram, would be nothing less than a concession to the promptings of a vague superstition wholly contrary to his nature and his creed. He had been ill, he reminded himself, and his vitality lowered, otherwise no such foolish imaginings could have held his mind for one single instant. To be scared of a place because it was silent, and in broad daylight, or at any other time for that matter—why, the thing was too absurd. He resumed his way.
And yet it was not altogether broad daylight either, for now with every few yards the overhanging trees became thicker and thicker, and all beneath lay shrouded in a semi-gloom that was anything but the broad light of day. An overpowering scent of strange tropical plants filled the air—fragrant, yet not altogether, for it seemed charged with a sense of earthiness and decay; and ever above, around, the same deadness of silence, the same weightiness of oppression, as though he were more and more getting outside the world.
He had gone far enough; it was time to turn back. Instinctively he sought his watch, then remembered that it had stopped during his long immersion. Curiously enough, the savages had refrained from robbing him of it, although a glittering bauble should have been far more likely to appeal to their cupidity than a mere collection of apparently useless and utterly unattractive bits of paper. He was about to turn back, accordingly, when something in front attracted and held his gaze.
Two straight rocks about twice his own height stood close together, forming, as it were, a gate—a door, rather—for spanning the aperture thus formed was a beam, and from it dangled a row of human skulls. Facing outward they faced him, and seemed to take on a forced and painful grin, as though still wearing the expression of an agonised death. Motionless they hung—some touching each other, some apart, looking ghastly enough in the drear silence of the forest. Wagram glanced at them with some disgust but no great awe. This, he decided, was the entrance to some shrine of devil-worship, and he would have turned away, rather contemptuous than impressed, but a motive, not altogether one of curiosity, moved him to enter that grim portal.
Once within he gazed around with an increased curiosity. He was in an oval space barely a hundred yards in length. The centre was open, and constituted an amphitheatre, the sides sloping steeply upward, and grown with thick bush. Above this he could see a rough but strong stockade, and surrounding it, disposed at intervals, were more human skulls. He crossed the open space to the farther end of the enclosure cautiously, but there was nothing in the shape of an altar of sacrifice or any implement of death or destruction. At the farther end was a large flat stone, flush with the ground. That might be worth examining.
And now curiosity began to awaken vividly within him. This place was obviously a temple—a court, rather—used for the heathenish and idolatrous rites of this tribe—whatever it might be. He bent over the stone. It was rudely hewn into something of an oblong, and was covered with a dark and greasy coating which might have been dried blood. Yes; it looked like that, and he straightened himself up again, nauseated by the idea.