I did not spend more than half-an-hour in creeping round that well and finding the path on the other side.  The remainder of the journey I accomplished by feeling every foot of ground in front of me, and crawling like a snail through every tussock.  I carried Mr. Wardle in my arms and he licked my nose.  He was not frightened in the least, nor was I, but we wished to reach open ground in order to enjoy the view.  My knees were loose, and the apple in my throat refused to slide up and down.  The path on the far side of the well was a very good one, though boxed in on all sides by grass, and it led me in time to a priest’s hut in the centre of a little clearing.  When that priest saw my very white face coming through the grass he howled with terror and embraced my boots; but when I reached the bedstead set outside his door I sat down quickly and Mr. Wardle mounted guard over me.  I was not in a condition to take care of myself.

When I awoke I told the priest to lead me into the open, out of the Arti-goth patch, and to walk slowly in front of me.  Mr. Wardle hates natives, and the priest was more afraid of Mr. Wardle than of me, though we were both angry.  He walked very slowly down a narrow little path from his hut.  That path crossed three paths, such as the one I had come by in the first instance, and every one of the three headed towards the Bubbling Well.  Once when we stopped to draw breath, I heard the Well laughing to itself alone in the thick grass, and only my need for his services prevented my firing both barrels into the priest’s back.

When we came to the open the priest crashed back into cover, and I went to the village of Arti-goth for a drink.  It was pleasant to be able to see the horizon all round, as well as the ground underfoot.

The villagers told me that the patch of grass was full of devils and ghosts, all in the service of the priest, and that men and women and children had entered it and had never returned.  They said the priest used their livers for purposes of witchcraft.  When I asked why they had not told me of this at the outset, they said that they were afraid they would lose their reward for bringing news of the pig.

Before I left I did my best to set the patch alight, but the grass was too green.  Some fine summer day, however, if the wind is favourable, a file of old newspapers and a box of matches will make clear the mystery of Bubbling Well Road.

‘THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT’ [Footnote:  Copyright, 1891, by MACMILLAN & Co.]

The dense wet heat that hung over the face of land, like a blanket, prevented all hope of sleep in the first instance.  The cicalas helped the heat; and the yelling jackals the cicalas.  It was impossible to sit still in the dark, empty, echoing house and watch the punkah beat the dead air.  So, at ten o’clock of the night, I set my walking-stick on end in the middle of the garden, and waited to