He was aware of the things that exist only in the night, of the demons worshiped by the witch-doctor of Megambo, of unearthly creatures that hovered in the shadows of the forest. The scene by the lake returned to him ... the procession of virgins pouring the fertile waters of the lake over the belly of a repulsive idol.
He thought, “We are bewitched—Swanson and Naomi and I. We will die prisoners without ever having broken the spell.”
In the heat of the still night death seemed all about on every side.
“I am awake and yet asleep. I am the only one who sees....”
The strange thunder kept on and on, now near at hand, now far away, rising and falling in volume.
Again the odd, voluptuous feeling of power lying in his own supple body swept over him. Leaning down he touched Swanson’s soft, heavy shoulder. “Swanson,” he said, and there was no answer. He shook the man savagely, and Swanson, coming out of a deep sleep, stared up at him.
“Yes, I fell asleep again.... I can’t help it.”
“Listen!” Philip commanded.
After a silence, Swanson said, “It’s thunder ... it’s going to rain.”
“It’s not thunder—look at the sky—what is it? You ought to know.”