CHAPTER XXV
On the summit of a little knoll, with a pipe between his teeth and
his back against a palm-tree, Trent was lounging away an hour of
the breathless night. Usually a sound sleeper, the wakefulness,
which had pursued him from the instant his head had touched his
travelling pillow an hour or so back, was not only an uncommon
occurrence, but one which seemed proof against any effort on his
part to overcome it. So he had risen and stolen away from the
little camp where his companions lay wrapped in heavy slumber. They
had closed their eyes in a dense and tropical darkness - so thick
indeed that they had lit a fire, notwithstanding the stifling heat,
to remove that vague feeling of oppression which chaos so complete
seemed to bring with it. Its embers burnt now with a faint and
sickly glare in the full flood of yellow moonlight which had
fallen upon the country. From this point of vantage Trent could
trace backwards their day's march for many miles, the white posts
left by the surveyor even were visible, and in the background rose
the mountains of Bekwando. It had been a hard week's work for
Trent. He had found chaos, discontent, despair. The English agent
of the Bekwando Land Company was on the point of cancelling his
contract, the surveyors were spending valuable money without making
any real attempt to start upon their undoubtedly difficult task.
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