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. . .
He had missed the track. . . .
He was now in a second ravine. He was going downward, walking on
silvery sand amidst great boulders, and now there was a new sound in
the air--. It was the croaking of frogs. Ahead was a solitary
gleam. He was approaching a jungle pool. . . .
Suddenly the stillness was alive, in a panic uproar. "HONK!" cried
a great voice, and "HONK!" There was a clatter of hoofs, a wild
rush--a rush as it seemed towards him. Was he being charged? He
backed against a rock. A great pale shape leaped by him, an
antlered shape. It was a herd of big deer bolting suddenly out of
the stillness. He heard the swish and smash of their retreat grow
distant, disperse. He remained standing with his back to the rock.
Slowly the strophe and antistrophe of frogs and goat-suckers resumed
possession of his consciousness. But now some primitive instinct
perhaps or some subconscious intimation of danger made him
meticulously noiseless.
He went on down a winding sound-deadening path of sand towards the
drinking-place.


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