THE DARK HIGHWAY. 
27 
ing of countless frogs. The restless beat of the 
engines had stopped, and the only sound was 
the gentle tapping of the water against the 
bows, and the shiver of the launch sometimes, 
as she knocked against the bank to which she 
was moored. 
A little wandering wind brought the 
fragrance of some night flower across the river 
—faint and exotic. The jungle turned soft 
grey and then a velvety black, and from out the 
shadows came the sudden banshee cry of the 
'wailing bird’ that stirs the heart with terror. 
Four times repeated, its falling desolate 
cadences tore the quiet of the night, then died 
away to silence. 
