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MSUATA, 193 
have to pass a night in the damp and dripping woods, 
our one thought is to take advantage of a brief spell of — 
immunity and cross the Congo before the elements can 
hinder our progress. ‘So the sketching materials are 
hastily put together, the tent is taken down and rolled up, 
the remainder of the lunch is left to the ants and birds, 
and rapidly unmooring the canoe, we paddle out from -our 
little tranquil harbour into the open Congo. How the 
storm grows! In five minutes the haze has become a 
black, densely-packed ridge of clouds along the horizon, 
The extreme edge of the water tells out against the dark 
cloud-bank in ominous white: still there is time. We 
, we, for I, too, strive to 
increase the speed with measured strokes. Shall we never 
cross the mile-wide stream ? 
See, the artillery is beginning. It flashes and blazes 
fitfully in the far distance... As ‘yet all is still. We see 
the lightning but do not hear the thunder. The water is 
_ dike solid olass ; to our right it is still smilingly, vacuously 
blue, but storm-wards it has become a sullen orey, ever 
deepening in tint. Ah, there is the thunder, beginning in 
a low muttering with occasional isolated pops and reports 
like single shots. A third of the sky is now filled witha 
pall of uniformly black-grey cloud, quite unbroken save 
by one small, whitish fleck that to a fanciful eye might 
seem a general on a white horse directing the movements 
of the vast compact hosts. The edge of the storm-cloud 
is torn, irregular, harried, and is fast stretching with dis- 
ordered outline over our heads. Now comes a splendid 
coruscation, a dazzling blaze of lightning over the face of 
the cloud, followed by a perfect roar of thunder that 
makes us unconsciously tremble. 
The hour of danger is fast approaching, but, save for the 
steady advance of the storm, nothing moves in nature. 
The water is unruffled, the foliage of the nearer shore is 
unstirred by any breath of air. We have done three- 
quarters of the journey, can we accomplish the rest un- 
harmed? Ah, no! too late—the Wind is coming, and | 
Faraji, catching sight of the distant waves, says under his 
breath, “Oh Muhammad, Oh Prophet of God, save us.” 
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