"Have a drink?" he asked.
Da Souza shook his head.
"The less we drink in this country," he said, "the better. I guess
out here, spirits come next to poison. I'll smoke with you, if you
have a cigar handy."
Trent drew a handful of cigars from his pocket. "They're beastly,"
he said, "but it's a beastly country. I'll be glad to turn my back
on it."
"There is a good deal,"Da Souza said, "which we must now talk
about."
"To-morrow," Trent said curtly. "No more now! I haven't got over
my miserable journey yet. I'm going to try and get some sleep."
He swung out into the heavy darkness. The air was thick with
unwholesome odours rising from the lake-like swamp beyond the
drooping circle of trees. He walked a little way towards the sea,
and sat down upon a log. A faint land-breeze was blowing, a
melancholy soughing came from the edge of the forest only a few
hundred yards back, sullen, black, impenetrable. He turned his
face inland unwillingly, with a superstitious little thrill of
fear. Was it a coyote calling, or had he indeed heard the moan
of a dying man, somewhere back amongst that dark, gloomy jungle?
He scoffed at himself! Was he becoming as a girl, weak and timid?
Yet a moment later he closed his eyes, and pressed his hands tightly
over his hot eyeballs.
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