Then suddenly an angry chattering came from the dark trees quite
close at hand. A monkey? . . .

These great, scarce visible, sweeping movements through the air were
bats. . . .

Of course, the day jungle is the jungle asleep. This was its waking
hour. Now the deer were arising from their forms, the bears
creeping out of their dens amidst the rocks and blundering down the
gullies, the tigers and panthers and jungle cats stalking
noiselessly from their lairs in the grass. Countless creatures that
had hidden from the heat and pitiless exposure of the day stood now
awake and alertly intent upon their purposes, grazed or sought
water, flitting delicately through the moonlight and shadows. The
jungle was awakening. Again Benham heard that sound like the
belling of a stag. . . .

This was the real life of the jungle, this night life, into which
man did not go. Here he was on the verge of a world that for all
the stuffed trophies of the sportsman and the specimens of the
naturalist is still almost as unknown as if it was upon another
planet. What intruders men are, what foreigners in the life of this
ancient system!

He looked over his shoulder, and there were the two little tents,
one that sheltered Kepple and one that awaited him, and beyond, in
an irregular line, glowed the ruddy smoky fires of the men. One or
two turbaned figures still flitted about, and there was a voice--
low, monotonous--it must have been telling a tale. Further, sighing
and stirring ever and again, were tethered beasts, and then a great