There were steep hills, covered with masses of verdure, such as he had never seen before.
Below, right at the foot of the precipice, flowed the river which had brought him thither, a long, silver ribbon upon the mud, partly veiled by a white cloud of morning mist. The crocodiles that lay on the banks looked like small lizards, seen from such a height. The air was filled with an unknown scent.
The exhausted rowers were sleeping down there, where they had halted the previous night, lying in their canoe upon their oars.
XXVII
There was a clear stream flowing over a bed of dark pebbles, between walls of wet, polished rock. Trees formed an arch above it; the landscape had a freshness that one might have associated with any other place rather than an obscure corner in the heart of Africa.
Naked women, of the same reddish-brown colouring as the rocks, their heads ornamented with amber, were everywhere washing pagnes, and excitedly recounting the events and combats of the night. Warriors armed to the teeth were fording the stream on their way to battle.
Jean took his first walk around the village, whither his new fate had brought him for an indefinite period.
There was certainly trouble brewing, and the little post of Gadiangué foresaw a time when it would be obliged to close its doors to allow the negro communities time to settle their own affairs—as one closes one’s windows during a passing shower.
But in all this there was movement, vitality, originality even to excess. There were forests, verdure, flowers, mountains, running water—awe-inspiring, natural splendour.