And in my own case, the fever which I had fought off by constant use
of the hypodermic needle, now swept over me with renewed violence. The
drug did not have the same effect as when I was new to the ravages
of the fever.

At this point my recollections became almost inextricably confused. I
know that at times I raved wildly as I staggered on, for occasionally
I came to myself with strange phrases on my lips addressed to no one
in particular. When these lucid moments brought coherent thought,
it was the jungle, the endless, all-embracing, fearful jungle, that
overwhelmed my mind. No shipwrecked mariner driven to madness by long
tossing on a raft at sea ever conceived such hatred and horror of his
surroundings as that which now came upon me for the fresh, perpetual,
monotonous green of the interminable forest.

About noon the weight on my back became unbearable and I resolved to
sacrifice my precious cargo. I threw away my camera, my unexposed
plates, all utensils, and four of the boxes of gold dust. This
left me with one box of gold, a few boxes of exposed plates (which
I eventually succeeded in carrying all the way back to New York),
and fifty-six bullets, the automatic revolver, and the machete. Last,
but not least, I kept the hypodermic needle and a few more ampules.

We had walked scarcely a quarter of a mile when Jerome collapsed. The
poor fellow declared that he was beaten; it was no use to fight any
more; he begged me to hurry the inevitable and send a bullet through
his brain. The prospect of another visitation of Death aroused me
from my stupor. I got him to a dry spot and found some dry leaves and
branches with which I started a fire. Jerome was beyond recognising
me. He lay by the fire, drawing long, wheezing breaths, and his face