XXIX 

 THE LESSER KUDU 



ABOUT eight o'clock, the evening of our first 

 day on the Swanee, the heat broke in a trop- 

 ical downpour. We heard it coming from a long 

 distance, like the roar of a great wind. The velvet 

 blackness, star hung, was troubled by an invisible, 

 blurring mist, evidenced only through a subtle 

 effect on the subconsciousness. Every leaf above 

 us, in the circle of our firelight, depended absolutely 

 motionless from its stem. The insects had ceased 

 their shrilling; the night birds their chirping; the 

 animals, great and small, their callings or their 

 stealthy rustling to and fro. Of the world of sound 

 there remained only the crackling of our fires, the 

 tiny singing of the blood in our ears, and that far- 

 off, portentous roar. Our simple dispositions were 

 made. Trenches had been dug around the tents; 

 the pegs had been driven well home; our stores had 

 been put in shelter. We waited silently, puffing 

 away at our pipes. 



The roaring increased in volume. Beneath it we 



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