Here and there the passages and balconies graded one to another’s level, all being held together by innumerable stays and props, sent down from branch to branch, and from branches to the grassy turf beneath; and one sweeping limb, coming almost to the ground in a gentle incline before twisting away and up again, made ascent so simple that the men-folk sent the missus for a “stroll in midair,” sure that no white woman’s feet had yet trodden those winding ways.  And as she strolled about the tree—­not climbed—­hindered only by her holland riding-skirt, Brown followed, anxiously but cautiously.  Then, the spirit of vandalism taking hold of the Maluka, he cut the name of the missus deep into the yielding bark.

There are some wonderful trees on the Elsey, but not one of them will compare with the majesty and grandeur of that old banyan.  Away from the world it stands beyond those rocky ways and boulders, with its soft shade sweeping curves, and feathery undergrowth, making a beautiful world of its own.  For years upon years it has stood there—­may be for centuries—­sending down from its branches those props for its old age, bountiful with its shade, and indifferent whether its path-ways be trodden by white feet or black.

After the heat and “drouth” we could have loitered in that pleasant shade; but we were due at the Red Lilies “second night out”; and it being one of the unwritten laws of a “nigger-hunt” to keep appointments—­“the other chaps worrying a bit if you don’t turn up”—­soon after four o’clock we were out in the blazing heat again, following the river now along its higher flood-bank through grassy plains and open forest land.

By five o’clock Dan was prophesying that “it ’ud take us all we knew to do the trick in daylight,” but at six o’clock, when we were still eight miles from the Red Lilies, the Maluka settled the question by calling for a camp there and then.  “The missus had had enough,” the Maluka decided, and Dan became anxious.  “It’s that drouth that’s done it,” he lamented; and although agreeing with the Maluka that Jack would survive a few hours’ anxiety, regretted we had “no way of letting him know.” (We were not aware of the efficiency of smoke signalling).

We turned back a short distance for better watering for horses, settling down for the night at the second “duck-under”—­McMinn’s bar—­within sound of the rushing of many waters; for here the river comes back to the surface with a mighty roar and swirling currents.  “Knockup camp,” Dan christened it in his pleasant way, and Sambo became unexpectedly curious.  “Missus knock up?” he asked, and the Maluka nodding, Sambo’s question was forgotten until the next mid-day.

By then we had passed the Red Lily lagoons, and ridden across the salt-bush plain, and through a deep belt of tall, newly sprung green grass, that hugged the river there just then, and having been greeted by smug, smiling old black fellows, were saluting Jack across two or three hundred feet of water, as we stood among our horses.