THE DARK HIGHWAY. 
21 
even to recall the crowded bustle of a London 
terminus, the stir of Southampton, the arrival 
and departures at various ports of call—all the 
long chain of movement and action that had 
ended here. The 
dark green jungle 
stretched for 
miles on either 
bank, only broken 
here and there by 
the brilliant flame 
of some flowering 
tree. Men had 
penetrated but a 
little way into the 
interior; had only 
brushed, as it 
were, the fringe 
of the unknown. 
Beyond that lay 
an impenetrable and secret land. 
Palms and feathery bamboos and huge forest 
trees were caught and tangled in a smother of 
undergrowth, and of lianas that hung in 
festoons, or roped themselves in huge folds 
round the trunks. A man who sought to make 
a path for himself must hew and slash his way 
with a long knife. The forest was very silent 
except for the muted call of some hidden bird, 
or the rustling fall of a seed pod from the trees. 
Small birds flew in the tree tops, but it was 
