Berselius cast himself down by a huge tree and leaned his head against the bark. Adams stood for a moment with his hand upon the tree-bole. He knew that when he had cast himself down he would never rise again. It was the full stop which would bring the story of his life to a close.
He was standing like this when, borne on the breeze above the tree-tops, came a sound, stroke after stroke, sonorous and clear. The bell of a steamboat!
It was the voice of the Congo telling of Life, Hope, Relief.
Berselius did not hear it. Sunk in a profound stupor, he would not even raise his head.
Adams seized his companion in his arms and came facing the direction of the breeze. He walked like a man in his sleep, threading the maze of the trees on, on, on, till before him the day broke in one tremendous splash of light, and the humble frame-roof of M’Bina seemed to him the roofs of some great city, beyond which the river flowed in sheets of burnished gold.