It was weird and beautiful and
pitiless. Unlike the peaceful order of our Northern forests, here
was a savage riot, an unending treacherous warfare without light
or room or mercy. There was something terrible in it all.
Tiring of the scene at last, Kirk continued his wanderings,
bearing gradually toward the right, that he might eventually
emerge upon the Savannas below, where he knew there was a good
paved road leading to the city. But the trails were devious and
seemed to lead nowhere, so at last he struck out through the
jungle itself. Having no machete with which to clear a way, his
progress was slow, but he took his time, keeping a wary outlook
for game, twisting back and forth to avoid the densest thickets,
until he finally came out upon the margin of a stream. Through the
verdure beyond it he saw the open, sunlit meadows, and he followed
the bank in the hope of finding a foot-log or a bridge upon which
to cross. He had gone, perhaps, a hundred yards when he stumbled
out into a cleared space, where he paused with an exclamation of
surprise.
The brook had been dammed and widened into a deep, limpid pool to
which the clean, white sand of its bottom lent a golden hue. At
the lower end it overflowed in a waterfall, the purling music of
which filled the glade.
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