now looked, the cause of all, the voice itself, was a thing to
marvel at more than ever. That it proceeded from an intelligent
being I was firmly convinced; and although too materialistic in
my way of thinking to admit for a moment that it was a
supernatural being, I still felt that there was something more
than I had at first imagined in Kua-ko's speech about a daughter
of the Didi. That the Indians knew a great deal about the
mysterious voice, and had held it in great fear, seemed evident.
But they were savages, with ways that were not mine; and however
friendly they might be towards one of a superior race, there was
always in their relations with him a low cunning, prompted partly
by suspicion, underlying their words and actions. For the white
man to put himself mentally on their level is not more impossible
than for these aborigines to be perfectly open, as children are,
towards the white. Whatever subject the stranger within their
gates exhibits an interest in, that they will be reticent about;
and their reticence, which conceals itself under easily invented
lies or an affected stupidity, invariably increases with his
desire for information. It was plain to them that some very
unusual interest took me to the wood; consequently I could not
expect that they would tell me anything they might know to
enlighten me about the matter; and I concluded that Kua-ko's
words about the daughter of the Didi, and what she would do if he
blew an arrow at a bird, had accidentally escaped him in a moment
of excitement. Nothing, therefore, was to be gained by
questioning them, or, at all events, by telling them how much the
subject attracted me. And I had nothing to fear; my independent
investigations had made this much clear to me; the voice might
proceed from a very frolicsome and tricksy creature, full of wild
fantastic humours, but nothing worse. It was friendly to me, I