26 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
conveniently blind. True, there were not so 
many drowned bodies now-a-days. A revolver 
shot in the depth of the jungle was a quieter 
way of getting rid of a troublesome man, 
perhaps. ‘ And there are always the vultures/ 
finished Pedroso, as he went aft. 
The sinister picture we had seen remained 
etched in our memories. Was it the last scene 
of some such tragedy as the boatman had spoken 
of? We pictured the hopelessness of a man 
finding himself prisoned in this distant land, 
shut in by the impenetrable jungle, watched by 
armed guards. Where could he go for help? 
Whither could he fly? The river might be 
several days’ journey away, the way unknown. 
And so, perhaps, he waited till anything 
seemed better than inaction. He chose to brave 
the dangers of the jungle, fighting his way 
desperately to the river. 
And then ? 
His hope had proved his destruction. Either 
he had tried to swim across, or perhaps had 
made some sort of raft on which to escape. And 
it had ended as we had seen- 
More than ever there seemed to us something 
terrible and pitiless about the river, about the 
secret jungle and the enamelled brilliance of the 
sky. What scenes they must have watched, 
what tragedies they must have known! 
A few hours later came the sudden dark, the 
rising of mists along the water, and the chirr- 
