THE CONVICT TRAIL 191 



the edge of the high bush, and we did not 

 slacken speed until we were in the dim light 

 which filtered through the western branches. 



At the top of the slope we heard a yell — a 

 veritable Red Indian yell — and there our Aka- 

 wai hunter was dancing excitedly about, shouting 

 to us to come on. " Snake, he move! Snake, he 

 move ! " We arrived panting, and he tremblingly 

 led me along a fallen tree and pointed to the 

 dead leaves. I well knew the color and pattern 

 of the bushmaster. I had had them brought to 

 me dead and had killed them myself, and I had 

 seen them in their cage behind glass. But now, 

 though I was thinking bushmaster and looking 

 bushmaster, my eyes insisted on registering dead 

 leaves. Eager as I was to begin operations 

 before darkness closed down, it was a full three 

 minutes before I could honestly say, " This is 

 leaf; that is snake." 



The pattern and pigment of the cunningly 

 arranged coils were that of the jungle floor, 

 anywhere; a design of dead leaves, reddish- 

 yellow, pinkish, dark-brown, etched with mold, 

 fungus and decay, and with all the shadows and 

 high lights which the heaped-up plant tissues 

 throw upon one another. In the center of this 



