while; when I could realise where I was and how I got there. I was
crawling through the thicket making small, miserable progress, my
insensible face and hands torn and scratched by spines and thorns
which I did not heed, when something bumped against my thigh; I
clutched at it and my hand closed around the butt of my automatic
pistol. The weapon came out of its holster unconsciously, but as I felt
my finger rest in the curve of the trigger, I knew that some numbed
and exhausted corner of my brain had prompted me to do this thing;
indeed, as I weighed the matter with what coolness I could bring to
bear, it did not seem particularly wicked. With the pistol in my hand
and with the safety released, I believed that the rest would have been
easy and even pleasant. What did I have in my favour? What prospect
did I have of escaping the jungle? None whatever--none!

There was no shadow of hope for me, and I had long ago given up
believing in miracles. For eight days I had scarcely had a mouthful to
eat, excepting the broiled monkey at _tambo_ No. 7, shot by the young
Indian. The fever had me completely in its grasp. I was left alone
more than one hundred miles from human beings in absolute wilderness. I
measured cynically the tenaciousness of life, measured the thread that
yet held me among the number of the living, and I realised now what the
fight between life and death meant to a man brought to bay. I had not
the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the last of me. Surely,
no man could have been brought lower or to greater extremity and live;
no man ever faced a more hopeless proposition. Yet I could or would
not yield, but put the pistol back where it belonged.

All night long I crawled on and on and ever on, through the underbrush,
with no sense of direction whatever, and still I am sure that I did
not crawl in a circle but that I covered a considerable distance. For