What was to be done?  The arm of stagnant water lay near to us, but we had no boat with which to cross to the further shore.  And what was that shore?  A cave where a creature who seemed to be but half-human, sat watching like a spider in its web.  Do not let it be supposed that this question of escape had been absent from our minds.  On the contrary, we had even thought of trying to drag the canoe in which we crossed to and from the island of the Flower through the forest.  The idea was abandoned, however, because we found that being hollowed from a single log with a bottom four or five inches thick, it was impossible for us to carry it so much as fifty yards.  What then could we do without a boat?  Swimming seemed to be out of the question because of the crocodiles.  Also on inquiry I discovered that of the whole party Stephen and I alone could swim.  Further there was no wood of which to make a raft.

I called to Hans and leaving the rest in the graveyard where we knew that they were safe, we went down to the edge of the water to study the situation, being careful to keep ourselves hidden behind the reeds and bushes of the mangrove tribe with which it was fringed.  Not that there was much fear of our being seen, for the day, which had been very hot, was closing in and a great storm, heralded by black and bellying clouds, was gathering fast, conditions which must render us practically invisible at a distance.

We looked at the dark, slimy water—­also at the crocodiles which sat upon its edge in dozens waiting, eternally waiting, for what, I wondered.  We looked at the sheer opposing cliff, but save where a black hole marked the cave mouth, far as the eye could see, the water came up against it, as that of a moat does against the wall of a castle.  Obviously, therefore, the only line of escape ran through this cave, for, as I have explained, the channel by which I presume Babemba reached the open lake, was now impracticable.  Lastly, we searched to see if there was any fallen log upon which we could possibly propel ourselves to the other side, and found—­nothing that could be made to serve, no, nor, as I have said, any dry reeds or brushwood out of which we might fashion a raft.

“Unless we can get a boat, here we must stay,” I remarked to Hans, who was seated with me behind a screen of rushes at the water’s edge.

He made no answer, and as I thought, in a sort of subconscious way, I engaged myself in watching a certain tragedy of the insect world.  Between two stout reeds a forest spider of the very largest sort had spun a web as big as a lady’s open parasol.  There in the midst of this web of which the bottom strands almost touched the water, sat the spider waiting for its prey, as the crocodiles were waiting on the banks, as the great ape had waited for the Kalubis, as Death waits for Life, as the Motombo was waiting for God knows what.