The current of the stream carried Kathlyn along at a fair pace; all she
had to do was to pole away from the numerous sand-bars and such
boulders as lifted their rugged heads above the water.
Round a bend the river widened and grew correspondingly sluggish. She
sounded with her pole. Something hideous beyond words arose--a fat,
aged, crafty crocodile. His corrugated snout was thrust quickly over
the edge of the raft. She struck at him wildly with the pole, and in a
fury he rushed the raft, upsetting Kathlyn.
The crocodile sank and for a moment lost sight of Kathlyn, who waded
frantically to the bank, up which she scrambled. She turned in time to
see the crocodile's tearful [Transcriber's note: fearful?] eyes staring
up at her from the water's edge. He presently slid back into his slimy
bed; a few yellow bubbles, and he was gone.
Kathlyn's heart became suddenly and unaccountably swollen with rage;
she became primordial; she wanted to hurt, maim, kill. Childishly she
stooped and picked up heavy stones which she hurled into the water.
The instinct to live flamed so strongly in her that the crust of
civilization fell away like mist before the sun, and for a long time
the pure savage (which lies dormant in us all) ruled her. She would
live, live, live; she would live to forget this oriental inferno
through which she was passing.
She ran toward the jungle, all unconscious of the stone she still held
in her hand. She lost all sense of time and compass; and so ran in a
half circle, coming out at the river again.
The Indian twilight was rising in the east when she found herself again
looking out upon the water, the stone still clutched tightly. She
gazed at the river, then at the stone, and again at the river. The
stone dropped with a thud at her feet. The savage in her had not
abated in the least; only her body was terribly worn and wearied and
the robe, muddied and torn, enveloped her like a veil of ice. Above
her the lonely yellow sky; below her the sickly river; all about her
silence which held a thousand menaces. Which way should she go? Where
could she possibly find shelter for the night?
The chill roused her finally and she swung her arms to renew the
circulation. Near by she saw a tree, in the crotch of which reposed a
platform, and upon this platform sat a shrine. A few withered flowers
hung about the gross neck of the idol, and withered flowers lay
scattered at the base of the tree. There was also a bundle of dry
rushes which some devotee had forgotten. At least, yonder platform
would afford safety through the night. So, with the last bit of
strength at her command, she gathered up the rushes and climbed to the
platform, arranging her bed behind the idol. She covered her shoulders
with the rushes and drew her knees up to her chin. She had forgotten
her father, Bruce, the happy days in a far country; she had but a
single thought, to sleep. What the want of sleep could not perform
exhaustion could; and presently she lay still.