Forest and plain, marsh, morass, jungle, succeeded one another in interminable procession, and the setting sun now broke its ray on the low-lying hills, now reverberated on the far-off marshes on either side of the current, tinging them with a crimson glow. Towards sunset the whistle of the steamer frightened a flock of flamingoes gathered to roost, as is their wont when the shadows of evening approach. The whole flock sought refuge in flight, and their widespread wings, as they rose before us, seemed like a huge transparent pink curtain lifted before our very eyes, rising higher and higher until it vanished in space.

Night fell upon the scene. First the stars and then the moon kindled their beacon fires, dispelling darkness into a semi-obscurity fraught with mystery, embalmed with the effluvia from the forest and the river. We felt like a shadow crossing the wilderness. The littleness of self, the insignificance of the human being, became overwhelming.

What could it matter if that daring shell with its human freight were dashed to pieces against a submerged tree and swallowed in the waves? Nature, impassible, would take no notice of the event; in far-off homes sorrow would fill the loving hearts. The river would be looked upon as a grave, wondrous vast, where a dear one had found his rest, but the river itself would suffer no change, and our world of hopes, ambitions, infinite longings, would leave no more trace than the smallest bubble of the floating foam.

And thus the morrow came. With the light of day the circle of the horizon broadened; we were out at sea, no trace of land was visible. The waves tossed the struggling craft tenderly, gliding under its keel, the wind caressed the flying pennants on the mastheads and seemed to whisper promises of freedom as it rustled through the rigging. The mighty river had disappeared, paying its tribute, like a human being to the grave, to Father Ocean. And the long journey which lay behind us was nothing more than a dream in our memory, for things dreamt and things lived do so intermingle their identity in our minds that the attempt to disentangle their threads were useless. And so we drifted into the broad, unmeasurable expanse of waters which seemed to palpitate and tremble as with the touch of life under the glorious rays of the morning sun.

THE END

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD

Transcriber’s Notes