Even though the moon was full, the surface of the small river was
quite dark. The giant trees overhung its narrow banks, meeting in
a great arch above the centre of the river. Spanish moss dropped
from the gracefully bending limbs, and enormous creepers clambered
in riotous profusion from the ground to the loftiest branch, falling
in curving loops almost to the water's placid breast.
Now and then the river's surface would be suddenly broken ahead of
them by a huge crocodile, startled by the splashing of the oars,
or, snorting and blowing, a family of hippos would dive from a
sandy bar to the cool, safe depths of the bottom.
From the dense jungles upon either side came the weird night cries
of the carnivora--the maniacal voice of the hyena, the coughing
grunt of the panther, the deep and awful roar of the lion. And
with them strange, uncanny notes that the girl could not ascribe to
any particular night prowler--more terrible because of their mystery.
Huddled in the stern of the boat she sat with her baby strained
close to her bosom, and because of that little tender, helpless thing
she was happier tonight than she had been for many a sorrow-ridden
day.
Even though she knew not to what fate she was going, or how soon
that fate might overtake her, still was she happy and thankful for
the moment, however brief, that she might press her baby tightly
in her arms.
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