It opened out to him with a quality of invitation. . . .
There was the jungle before him. Was it after all so inaccessible?
"Come!" the road said to him.
Benham rose and walked out a few paces into the moonlight and stood
motionless.
Was he afraid?
Even now some hungry watchful monster might lurk in yonder shadows,
watching with infinite still patience. Kepple had told him how they
would sit still for hours--staring unblinkingly as cats stare at a
fire--and then crouch to advance. Beneath the shrill overtone of
the nightjars, what noiseless grey shapes, what deep breathings and
cracklings and creepings might there not be? . . .
Was he afraid?
That question determined him to go.
He hesitated whether he should take a gun. A stick? A gun, he
knew, was a dangerous thing to an inexperienced man. No! He would
go now, even as he was with empty hands. At least he would go as
far as the end of that band of moonlight. If for no other reason
than because he was afraid. NOW!
For a moment it seemed to him as though his feet were too heavy to
lift and then, hands in pockets, khaki-clad, an almost invisible
figure, he strolled towards the cart-track.
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