On the day on which they entered the forest,--that being the second
of their journey,--Mrs. Arkwright had asked for mercy, for
permission to escape that second stage. On the next she allowed
herself to be lifted into her saddle after her mid-day rest without
a word. She had tried to sleep, but in vain; and had sat within a
little hut, looking out upon the desolate scene before her, with her
baby in her lap. She had this one comfort, that of all the
travellers, she, the baby, suffered the least. They had now left
the high grounds, and the heat was becoming great, though not as yet
intense. And then, the Indian guide, looking out slowly over the
forest, saw that the rain was not yet over. He spoke a word or two
to one of his companions in a low voice and in a patois which Mrs.
Arkwright did not understand, and then going after the husband, told
him that the heavens were threatening.

"We have only two leagues," said Arkwright, "and it may perhaps hold
up."

"It will begin in an hour," said the Indian, "and the two leagues
are four hours."

"And to-morrow," asked Arkwright.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow it will still rain," said
the guide, looking as he spoke up over the huge primeval forest.

"Then we had better start at once," said Arkwright, "before the
first falling drops frighten the women." So the mules were brought
out, and he lifted his uncomplaining wife on to the blankets which
formed her pillion. The file again formed itself, and slowly they