10 THE IMAGE OF WAR 



One particularly dark and dirty evening I started 

 out on one of these expeditions. Kurnegalla was, 

 among other advantages, the only coffee district which 

 was not considered quite safe, so I always carried a 

 revolver. I reached my destination in heavy rain 

 about dark, and was, as usual, hospitably received. 

 For some reason or other my groom failed to turn up. 

 In Ceylon, when a man rides thirty miles, his groom is 

 expected to run the same distance. However, in this 

 case it mattered little, as my host's men were ready to 

 look after my nag. After a cheery dinner we settled 

 down to a rubber, which was kept up very late, so 

 that between one and two in the morning I mounted 

 to ride home. As soon as my eyes got accustomed to 

 the darkness I pushed on smartly. At the end of a 

 brisk trot of some four or five miles I pulled up to a 

 walk, partly to breathe my horse, but principally to 

 let him pick his way over a particularly bad bit of 

 road, which the buffaloes and cattle had poached into 

 deep holes. 



All at once there burst forth from the jungle to my 

 left the most appalling succession of sounds I have 

 ever heard. Perhaps they can be best compared to 

 the stifled shrieks and moans of a woman under 

 torture. Gradually they died away in a succession of 

 choking sobs, as if the life of the victim was dying 

 away with the sounds, leaving me rigid with horror, 

 my pistol drawn in my right hand. My horse had 

 stopped ; very likely I had instinctively drawn rein. 

 For some moments I listened, but nothing louder than 

 • the hum of insects and the drip of soaking vegetation 

 reached my ear. While I listened I thought, and 

 endeavoured to convince myself that I had not really 

 been ear- witness to a crime. I knew the road well, 



