There was not much to see—only a faint halo of light, with reflections sometimes from dripping rocks; but it seemed that there was no shore to the river on either side such as would afford footing, while as far as I could make out the stream was about the same width as it was outside.
There was the dancing light on ahead, playing strangely on the surface of the gliding waters, and all around black darkness, while the vast cavern in which we were, seemed to be filled with strange sounds, splashings, ripplings, whisperings, and their echoes.
“Hear that, Master Nat?” said Pete, getting close beside me and grasping my arm.
“Of course I can,” I said pettishly, for it was bad enough to suffer from one’s own feelings, without being troubled at such a time by others.
“But—oh, there it goes again,” he whispered.
“What goes again?” I said.
“That, sir. I dunno what it is, but there seems to be lots of ’em. Bill Cross stirs ’em up with the stick and the light, and they swims off both sides, and then you can hear ’em splashing with their tails as they come back again.”
“Nonsense!” I said. “That’s all imagination.”
“Oh, no, it aren’t, sir,” he whispered. “I say, what did you say was the name of them big snakes that lives part of their time in the water?”
“Anacondas.”