when nuflo at length opened his eyes he found me sitting alone and despondent by the fire, just returned from my vain chase. i had been caught in a heavy mist on the mountain-side, and was wet through as well as weighed down by fatigue and drowsiness, consequent upon the previous day’s laborious march and my night-long vigil; yet i dared not think of rest. she had gone from me, and i could not have prevented it; yet the thought that i had allowed her to slip out of my arms, to go away alone on that long, perilous journey, was as intolerable as if i had consented to it.
nuflo was at first startled to hear of her sudden departure; but he laughed at my fears, affirming that after having once been over the ground she could not lose herself; that she would be in no danger from the indians, as she would invariably see them at a distance and avoid them, and that wild beasts, serpents, and other evil creatures would do her no harm. the small amount of food she required to sustain life could be found anywhere; furthermore, her journey would not be interrupted by bad weather, since rain and heat had no effect on her. in the end he seemed pleased that she had left us, saying that with rima in the wood the house and cultivated patch and hidden provisions and implements would be safe, for no indian would venture to come where she was. his confidence reassured me, and casting myself down on the sandy floor of the cave, i fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until evening; then i only woke to share a meal with the old man, and sleep again until the following day.
nuflo was not ready to start yet; he was enamoured of the unaccustomed comforts of a dry sleeping-place and a fire blown about by no wind and into which fell no hissing raindrops. not for two days more would he consent to set out on the return journey, and if he could have persuaded me our stay at riolama would have lasted a week.
we had fine weather at starting; but before long it clouded, and then for upwards of a fortnight we had it wet and stormy, which so hindered us that it took us twenty-three days to accomplish the return journey, whereas the journey out had only taken eighteen. the adventures we met with and the pains we suffered during this long march need not be related. the rain made us miserable, but we suffered more from hunger than from any other cause, and on more than one occasion were reduced to the verge of starvation. twice we were driven to beg for food at indian villages, and as we had nothing to give in exchange for it, we got very little. it is possible to buy hospitality from the savage without fish-hooks, nails, and calico; but on this occasion i found myself without that impalpable medium of exchange which had been so great a help to me on my first journey to parahuari. now i was weak and miserable and without cunning. it is true that we could have exchanged the two dogs for cassava bread and corn, but we should then have been worse off than ever. and in the end the dogs saved us by an occasional capture — an armadillo surprised in the open and seized before it could bury itself in the soil, or an iguana, opossum, or labba, traced by means of their keen sense of smell to its hiding-place. then nuflo would rejoice and feast, rewarding them with the skin, bones, and entrails. but at length one of the dogs fell lame, and nuflo, who was very hungry, made its lameness an excuse for dispatching it, which he did apparently without compunction, notwithstanding that the poor brute had served him well in its way. he cut up and smoke-dried the flesh, and the intolerable pangs of hunger compelled me to share the loathsome food with him. we were not only indecent, it seemed to me, but cannibals to feed on the faithful servant that had been our butcher. “but what does it matter?” i argued with myself. “all flesh, clean and unclean, should be, and is, equally abhorrent to me, and killing animals a kind of murder. but now i find myself constrained to do this evil thing that good may come. only to live i take it now — this hateful strength-giver that will enable me to reach rima, and the purer, better life that is to be.”
during all that time, when we toiled onwards league after league in silence, or sat silent by the nightly fire, i thought of many things; but the past, with which i had definitely broken, was little in my mind. rima was still the source and centre of all my thoughts; from her they rose, and to her returned. thinking, hoping, dreaming, sustained me in those dark days and nights of pain and privation. imagination was the bread that gave me strength, the wine that exhilarated. what sustained old nuflo’s mind i know not. probably it was like a chrysalis, dormant, independent of sustenance; the bright-winged image to be called at some future time to life by a great shouting of angelic hosts and noises of musical instruments slept secure, coffined in that dull, gross nature.
the old beloved wood once more! never did his native village in some mountain valley seem more beautiful to the switzer, returning, war-worn, from long voluntary exile, than did that blue cloud on the horizon — the forest where rima dwelt, my bride, my beautiful — and towering over it the dark cone of ytaioa, now seem to my hungry eyes! how near at last — how near! and yet the two or three intervening leagues to be traversed so slowly, step by step — how vast the distance seemed! even at far riolama, when i set out on my return, i scarcely seemed so far from my love. this maddening impatience told on my strength, which was small, and hindered me. i could not run nor even walk fast; old nuflo, slow, and sober, with no flame consuming his heart, was more than my equal in the end, and to keep up with him was all i could do. at the finish he became silent and cautious, first entering the belt of trees leading away through the low range of hills at the southern extremity of the wood. for a mile or upwards we trudged on in the shade; then i began to recognize familiar ground, the old trees under which i had walked or sat, and knew that a hundred yards further on there would be a first glimpse of the palm-leaf thatch. then all weakness forsook me; with a low cry of passionate longing and joy i rushed on ahead; but i strained my eyes in vain for a sight of that sweet shelter; no patch of pale yellow colour appeared amidst the universal verdure of bushes, creepers, and trees — trees beyond trees, trees towering above trees.
for some moments i could not realize it. no, i had surely made a mistake, the house had not stood on that spot; it would appear in sight a little further on. i took a few uncertain steps onwards, and then again stood still, my brain reeling, my heart swelling nigh to bursting with anguish. i was still standing motionless, with hand pressed to my breast, when nuflo overtook me. “where is it — the house?” i stammered, pointing with my hand. all his stolidity seemed gone now; he was trembling too, his lips silently moving. at length he spoke: “they have come — the children of hell have been here, and have destroyed everything!”
“rima! what has become of rima?” i cried; but without replying he walked on, and i followed.
the house, we soon found, had been burnt down. not a stick remained. where it had stood a heap of black ashes covered the ground — nothing more. but on looking round we could discover no sign of human beings having recently visited the spot. a rank growth of grass and herbage now covered the once clear space surrounding the site of the dwelling, and the ash-heap looked as if it had been lying there for a month at least. as to what had become of rima the old man could say no word. he sat down on the ground overwhelmed at the calamity: runi’s people had been there, he could not doubt it, and they would come again, and he could only look for death at their hands. the thought that rima had perished, that she was lost, was unendurable. it could not be! no doubt the indians tract come and destroyed the house during our absence; but she had returned, and they had gone away again to come no more. she would be somewhere in the forest, perhaps not far off, impatiently waiting our return. the old man stared at me while i spoke; he appeared to be in a kind of stupor, and made no reply: and at last, leaving him still sitting on the ground, i went into the wood to look for rima.
as i walked there, occasionally stopping to peer into some shadowy glade or opening, and to listen, i was tempted again and again to call the name of her i sought aloud; and still the fear that by so doing i might bring some hidden danger on myself, perhaps on her, made me silent. a strange melancholy rested on the forest, a quietude seldom broken by a distant bird’s cry. how, i asked myself, should i ever find her in that wide forest while i moved about in that silent, cautious way? my only hope was that she would find me. it occurred to me that the most likely place to seek her would be some of the old haunts known to us both, where we had talked together. i thought first of the mora tree, where she had hidden herself from me, and thither i directed my steps. about this tree, and within its shade, i lingered for upwards of an hour; and, finally, casting my eyes up into the great dim cloud of green and purple leaves, i softly called: “rima, rima, if you have seen me, and have concealed yourself from me in your hiding-place, in mercy answer me — in mercy come down to me now!” but rima answered not, nor threw down any red glowing leaves to mock me: only the wind, high up, whispered something low and sorrowful in the foliage; and turning, i wandered away at random into the deeper shadows.
by and by i was startled by the long, piercing cry of a wildfowl, sounding strangely loud in the silence; and no sooner was the air still again than it struck me that no bird had uttered that cry. the indian is a good mimic of animal voices, but practice had made me able to distinguish the true from the false bird-note. for a minute or so i stood still, at a loss what to do, then moved on again with greater caution, scarcely breathing, straining my sight to pierce the shadowy depths. all at once i gave a great start, for directly before me, on the projecting root in the deeper shade of a tree, sat a dark, motionless human form. i stood still, watching it for some time, not yet knowing that it had seen me, when all doubts were put to flight by the form rising and deliberately advancing — a naked indian with a zabatana in his hand. as he came up out of the deeper shade i recognized piake, the surly elder brother of my friend kua-ko.
it was a great shock to meet him in the wood, but i had no time to reflect just then. i only remembered that i had deeply offended him and his people, that they probably looked on me as an enemy, and would think little of taking my life. it was too late to attempt to escape by flight; i was spent with my long journey and the many privations i had suffered, while he stood there in his full strength with a deadly weapon in his hand.
nothing was left but to put a bold face on, greet him in a friendly way, and invent some plausible story to account for my action in secretly leaving the village.
he was now standing still, silently regarding me, and glancing round i saw that he was not alone: at a distance of about forty yards on my right hand two other dusky forms appeared watching me from the deep shade.
“piake!” i cried, advancing three or four steps.
“you have returned,” he answered, but without moving. “where from?”
“riolama.”
he shook his head, then asked where it was.
“twenty days towards the setting sun,” i said. as he remained silent i added: “i heard that i could find gold in the mountains there. an old man told me, and we went to look for gold.”
“what did you find?”
“nothing.”
“ah!”
and so our conversation appeared to be at an end. but after a few moments my intense desire to discover whether the savages knew aught of rima or not made me hazard a question.
“do you live here in the forest now?” i asked.
he shook his head, and after a while said: “we come to kill animals.”
“you are like me now,” i returned quickly; “you fear nothing.”
he looked distrustfully at me, then came a little nearer and said: “you are very brave. i should not have gone twenty days’ journey with no weapons and only an old man for companion. what weapons did you have?”
i saw that he feared me and wished to make sure that i had it not in my power to do him some injury. “no weapon except my knife,” i replied, with assumed carelessness. with that i raised my cloak so as to let him see for himself, turning my body round before him. “have you found my pistol?” i added.
he shook his head; but he appeared less suspicious now and came close up to me. “how do you get food? where are you going?” he asked.
i answered boldly: “food! i am nearly starving. i am going to the village to see if the women have got any meat in the pot, and to tell runi all i have done since i left him.”
he looked at me keenly, a little surprised at my confidence perhaps, then said that he was also going back and would accompany me one of the other men now advanced, blow-pipe in hand, to join us, and, leaving the wood, we started to walk across the savannah.
it was hateful to have to recross that savannah again, to leave the woodland shadows where i had hoped to find rima; but i was powerless: i was a prisoner once more, the lost captive recovered and not yet pardoned, probably never to be pardoned. only by means of my own cunning could i be saved, and nuflo, poor old man, must take his chance.
again and again as we tramped over the barren ground, and when we climbed the ridge, i was compelled to stand still to recover breath, explaining to piake that i had been travelling day and night, with no meat during the last three days, so that i was exhausted. this was an exaggeration, but it was necessary to account in some way for the faintness i experienced during our walk, caused less by fatigue and want of food than by anguish of mind.
at intervals i talked to him, asking after all the other members of the community by name. at last, thinking only of rima, i asked him if any other person or persons besides his people came to the wood now or lived there.
he said no. “once,” i said, “there was a daughter of the didi, a girl you all feared: is she there now?”
he looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. i dared not press him with more questions; but after an interval he said plainly: “she is not there now.”
and i was forced to believe him; for had rima been in the wood they would not have been there. she was not there, this much i had discovered. had she, then, lost her way, or perished on that long journey from riolama? or had she returned only to fall into the hands of her cruel enemies? my heart was heavy in me; but if these devils in human shape knew more than they had told me, i must, i said, hide my anxiety and wait patiently to find it out, should they spare my life. and if they spared me and had not spared that other sacred life interwoven with mine, the time would come when they would find, too late, that they had taken to their bosom a worse devil than themselves.
