He had never come so far along the edge of the pools as this, but there was something in the configuration of the place that stirred his sleeping memory.
“What is it?” asked Adams.
“I don’t know,” replied Berselius. “I have dreamt—I have seen—I remember something—somewhere—”
Adams laughed.
“I know,” said he; “you come along, and in a few minutes you will see something that will help your memory. Why, man, we camped near here, you and I and Meeus; when you see the spot you’ll find yourself on your road again. Come, let’s make a start.”
The collector was standing with the half-full calabash in his hands.
He had not dared to drink. Adams nodded to him, motioning him to do so, but he handed it first to the porter. Then, when the porter had drunk, the collector finished the remains of the water and the last few drops he flung on the ground, an offering, perhaps, to some god or devil of his own. Then he led on, skirting the water’s edge. The loveliness of the place had not lessened since Adams had seen it last; even the breeze that was blowing to-day did not disturb the spirit of sweet and profound peace which held in a charm this lost garden of the wilderness; the palms bent as if in sleep, the water dimpled to the breeze and seemed to smile, a flamingo, with rose-coloured wings, passed and flew before them and vanished beyond the rocking tops of the trees that still sheltered the camping place where once Berselius had raised his tent.
Again, with theatrical effect, as the pools had burst upon them on leaving the forest, the camping place unveiled itself.
“Now,” said Adams in triumph, “do you remember that?”
Berselius did not reply. He was walking along with his eyes fixed straight before him. He did not stop, or hesitate, or make any exclamation to indicate whether he remembered or not.