“That song kinder brings back memories that’s

troublesome to me; I never oughter’ve begun it. It sets me on

t’imagining things, see?”

Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving

emotion. He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the

explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he

knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing

could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face

while he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing — no amount of

blazing fire, or chatting on ordinary subjects — could make that camp

exactly as it had been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked

if unguessed, that had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures

of the guide, had also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more

potently, to his companion. The guide’s visible efforts to dissemble

the truth only made things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man’s

uneasiness, was the difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of

asking questions, and also his complete ignorance as to the cause …

Indians, wild animals, forest fires — all these, he knew, were wholly

out of the question. His imagination searched vigorously, but in vain.

…

Yet, somehow, or other, after another long spell of smoking,

talking and roasting themselves before the great fire, the shadow that

had so suddenly invaded their peaceful camp began to lift. Perhaps

Defago’s efforts, or the return of his quiet and normal attitude

accomplished this; perhaps Simpson himself had exaggerated the affair

out of all proportion to the truth; or possibly the vigorous air of the

wilderness brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the

feeling of immediate horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously

as it had come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel

that he had permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put

it down partly to a certain subconscious excitement that this wild and

immense scenery generated in his blood, partly to the spell of

solitude, and partly to overfatigue. That pallor in the guide’s face

was, of course, uncommonly hard to explain, yet it might have been due

in some way to an effect of firelight, or his own imagination … He

gave it the benefit of the doubt; he was Scotch.

When a somewhat unordinary emotion has disappeared, the mind always

finds a dozen ways of explaining away its causes … Simpson lit a

last pipe and tried to laugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it

would make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter

was a sign that terror still lurked in the recesses of his soul -that, in fact, it was merely one of the conventional signs by which a

man, seriously alarmed, tries to persuade himself that he is not so.

Defago, however, heard that low laughter and looked up with

surprise on his face. The two men stood, side by side, kicking the

embers about before going to bed. It was ten o’clock — a late hour for

hunters to be still awake.

“What’s ticklin’yer?” he asked in his ordinary tone, yet gravely.

“I — I was thinking of our little toy woods at home, just at that

moment,” stammered Simpson, coming back to what really dominated his

mind, and startled by the question, “and comparing them to — to all

this,” and he swept his arm round to indicate the Bush.

A pause followed in which neither of them said anything.

“All the same I wouldn’t laugh about it, if I were you,” Defago

added, looking over Simpson’s shoulder into the shadows. “There’s

places in there nobody won’t never see into — nobody knows what lives

in there either.”

“Too big — too far off?” The suggestion in the guide’s manner was

immense and horrible.

Defago nodded. The expression on his face was dark. He, too, felt

uneasy.