escaped our sight during the fast-growing obscurity.  The first two reaches were long and bulging; the next became shorter, and Prince Paul assured us that, after one to the right, and another to the left, we should fall into the direct channel.  Roi Denis had promised us arrival at sunset; his son gradually protracted sunset till midnight.  Still the distance grew and grew.  I now learned for the first time that the boat was too large for the channel, and that oars were perfectly useless ahead.

At 8 P.M. we entered what seemed a cul de sac; it looked like charging a black wall, except where a gleam of grey light suggested the further end of the Box Tunnel, and cheered our poor hearts for a short minute, whilst in the distance we heard the tantalizing song of the wild waves.  The boughs on both sides brushed the boat; we held our hands before our faces to avoid the sharp stubs threatening ugly stabs, and to fend off the low branches, ready to sweep us and our belongings into the deep swirling water.  The shades closed in like the walls of the Italian’s dungeon; until our eyes grew to it, the blackness of Erebus weighed upon our spirits; perspiration poured from our brows, and in this watery mangrove-lane the pabulum vitae seemed to be wanting.  After forcing a passage through three vile “gates,” the sheet-lightning announced a second tornado.  We sighed for more vivid flashes, but after twenty minutes they dimmed and died away, still showing the “bush"-silhouette on either side.  The tide rushed out in strength under the amphibious forest—­all who know the West Coast will appreciate the position.  It was impossible to advance or to remain in this devil’s den, the gig bumped at every minute, and the early flood would probably crush her against the trees.  So we dropped down to the nearest “open,” which we reached at 9.30 P.M.

After enduring a third tornado we grounded, and the crew sprang ashore, saying that they were going to boil plantains on the bank.  I made snug for the night with a wet waterproof and a strip of muslin, to be fastened round the mouth after the fashion of Outram’s “fever guard,” and shut my lips to save my life, by the particular advice of Dr. Catlin.  The first mosquito piped his “Io Paean” at 8 P.M.; another hour brought legions, and then began the battle for our blood.  I had resolved not to sleep in the fetid air of the jungle; time, however, moved on wings of lead; a dull remembrance of a watery moon, stars dimly visible, a southerly breeze, and heavy drops falling from the trees long haunted me.  About midnight, Prince Paul, who had bewailed the hardship of passing a night sans mostiquaire in the bush, and whose violent plungings showed that he failed to manage un somme, proposed to land and to fetch fire from l’habitation.

“What habitation?”

“Oh! a little village belonging to papa.”

“And why the —–­didn’t you mention it?”

“Ah! this is Mponbinda, and you know we’re bound for Mbata!”