the strait. As Felix watched he saw her square sail again raised,

showing that she had reached a spot where the hills ceased to shut off

the wind. Entering the open Lake she altered her course and sailed away

to the north-north-east, following the course of the northern mainland.



Looking now eastwards, across the Lake, he saw a vast and beautiful

expanse of water, without island or break of any kind, reaching to the

horizon. Northwards and southwards the land fell rapidly away, skirted

as usual with islets and shoals, between which and the shore vessels

usually voyaged. He had heard of this open water, and it was his

intention to sail out into and explore it, but as the sun now began to

decline towards the west, he considered that he had better wait till

morning, and so have a whole day before him. Meantime, he would paddle

through the channel, beach the canoe on the islet that stood farthest

out, and so start clear on the morrow.



Turning now to look back the other way, westward, he was surprised to

see a second channel, which came almost to the foot of the hill on which

he stood, but there ended and did not connect with the first. The

entrance to it was concealed, as he now saw, by an island, past which he

must have sailed that afternoon. This second or blind channel seemed

more familiar to him than the flat and reedy shore at the mouth of the

true strait, and he now recognised it as the one to which he had

journeyed on foot through the forest. He had not then struck the true

strait at all; he had sat down and pondered beside this deceptive inlet

thinking that it divided the mainlands. From this discovery he saw how

easy it was to be misled in such matters.



But it even more fully convinced him of the importance of this

uninhabited and neglected place. It seemed like a canal cut on purpose

to supply a fort from the Lake in the rear with provisions and material,

supposing access in front prevented by hostile fleets and armies. A

castle, if built near where he stood, would command the channel; arrows,

indeed, could not be shot across, but vessels under the protection of

the castle could dispute the passage, obstructed as it could be with

floating booms. An invader coming from the north must cross here; for

many years past there had been a general feeling that some day such an

attempt would be made. Fortifications would be of incalculable value in

repelling the hostile hordes and preventing their landing.



Who held this strait would possess the key of the Lake, and would be

master of, or would at least hold the balance between, the kings and

republics dotted along the coasts on either hand. No vessel could pass

without his permission. It was the most patent illustration of the

extremely local horizon, the contracted mental view of the petty kings

and their statesmen, who were so concerned about the frontiers of their

provinces, and frequently interfered and fought for a single palisaded

estate or barony, yet were quite oblivious of the opportunity of empire

open here to any who could seize it.



If the governor of such a castle as he imagined built upon the strait,

had also vessels of war, they could lie in this second channel sheltered

from all winds, and ready to sally forth and take an attacking force

upon the flank. While he pondered upon these advantages he could not

conceal from himself that he had once sat down and dreamed beside this

second inlet, thinking it to be the channel. The doubt arose whether, if

he was so easily misled in such a large, tangible, and purely physical

matter, he might not be deceived also in his ideas; whether, if tested,

they might not fail; whether the world was not right and he wrong.



The very clearness and many-sided character of his mind often hindered

and even checked altogether the best founded of his impressions, the

more especially when he, as it were, stood still and thought. In

reverie, the subtlety of his mind entangled him; in action, he was

almost always right. Action prompted his decision. Descending from the

hill he now took some refreshment, and then pushed out again in the

canoe. So powerful was the current in the narrowest part of the strait

that it occupied him two hours in paddling as many miles.



When he was free of the channel, he hoisted sail and directed his course

straight out for an island which stood almost opposite the entrance. But

as he approached, driven along at a good pace, suddenly the canoe seemed

to be seized from beneath. He knew in a moment that he had grounded on

soft mud, and sprang up to lower the sail, but before he could do so the

canoe came to a standstill on the mud-bank, and the waves following

behind, directly she stopped, broke over the stern. Fortunately they

were but small, having only a mile or so to roll from the shore, but

they flung enough water on board in a few minutes to spoil part of his

provisions, and to set everything afloat that was loose on the bottom of

the vessel.



He was apprehensive lest she should fill, for he now perceived that he

had forgotten to provide anything with which to bale her out. Something

is always forgotten. Having got the sail down (lest the wind should snap

the mast), he tried hard to force the canoe back with his longer paddle,

used as a movable rudder. His weight and the resistance of the adhesive

mud, on which she had driven with much force was too great; he could not

shove her off. When he pushed, the paddle sank into the soft bottom, and

gave him nothing to press against. After struggling for some time, he

paused, beginning to fear that his voyage had already reached an end.



A minute's thought, more potent than the strength of ten men, showed him

that the canoe required lightening. There was no cargo to throw

overboard, nor ballast. He was the only weight. He immediately

undressed, and let himself overboard at the prow, retaining hold of the

stem. His feet sank deep into the ooze; he felt as if, had he let go, he

should have gradually gone down into this quicksand of fine mud. By

rapidly moving his feet he managed, however, to push the canoe; she rose

considerably so soon as he was out of her, and, although he had hold of

the prow, still his body was lighter in the water. Pushing, struggling,

and pressing forward, he, by sheer impact, as it were, for his feet

found no hold in the mud, forced her back by slow degrees.



The blows of the waves drove her forward almost as much as he pushed her

back. Still, in time, and when his strength was fast decreasing, she did

move, and he had the satisfaction of feeling the water deeper beneath

him. But when he endeavoured to pull himself into the canoe over the

prow, directly his motive power ceased, the waves undid the advance he

had achieved, and he had to resume his labour. This time, thinking

again, before he attempted to get into the canoe he turned her sideways

to the wind, with the outrigger to leeward. When her sharp prow and

rounded keel struck the mud-bank end on she ran easily along it. But,

turned sideways, her length found more resistance, and though the waves

sent her some way upon it, she soon came to a standstill. He clambered

in as quickly as he could (it is not easy to get into a boat out of the

water, the body feels so heavy), and, taking the paddle, without waiting

to dress, worked away from the spot.



Not till he had got some quarter of a mile back towards the mainland did

he pause to dry himself and resume part of his clothing; the canoe being

still partly full of water, it was no use to put on all. Resting awhile

after his severe exertions, he looked back, and now supposed, from the

colour of the water and the general indications, that these shallows

extended a long distance, surrounding the islands at the mouth of the

channel, so that no vessel could enter or pass out in a direct line, but

must steer to the north or south until the obstacle was rounded. Afraid

to attempt to land on another island, his only course, as the sun was

now going down, was to return to the mainland, which he reached without

much trouble, as the current favoured him.



He drew the canoe upon the ground as far as he could. It was not a good

place to land, as the bottom was chalk, washed into holes by the waves,

and studded with angular flints. As the wind was off the shore it did

not matter; if it had blown from the east, his canoe might very likely

have been much damaged. The shore was overgrown with hazel to within

twenty yards of the water, then the ground rose and was clothed with low

ash-trees, whose boughs seemed much stunted by tempest, showing how

exposed the spot was to the easterly gales of spring. The south-west

wind was shut off by the hills beyond. Felix was so weary that for some

time he did nothing save rest upon the ground, which was but scantily

covered with grass. An hour's rest, however, restored him to himself.



He gathered some dry sticks (there were plenty under the ashes), struck

his flint against the steel, ignited the tinder, and soon had a fire. It

was not necessary for warmth, the June evening was soft and warm, but it

was the hunter's instinct. Upon camping for the night the hunter, unless

Bushmen are suspected to be in the neighbourhood, invariably lights a

fire, first to cook his supper, and secondly, and often principally, to

make the spot his home. The hearth is home, whether there be walls round

it or not. Directly there are glowing embers the place is no longer

wild, it becomes human. Felix had nothing that needed cooking. He took

his cowhide from the canoe and spread it on the ground.



A well-seasoned cowhide is the first possession of every hunter; it

keeps him from the damp; and with a second, supported on three short

poles stuck in the earth (two crossed at the top in front, forming a

fork, and fastened with a thong, the third resting on these), he

protects himself from the heaviest rain. This little tent is always

built with the back to windward. Felix did not erect a second hide, the

evening was so warm and beautiful he did not need it, his cloak would be

ample for covering. The fire crackled and blazed at intervals, just far

enough from him that he might feel no inconvenience from its heat.



Thrushes sang in the ash wood all around him, the cuckoo called, and the

chiff-chaff never ceased for a moment. Before him stretched the expanse

of waters; he could even here see over the low islands. In the sky a

streak of cloud was tinted by the sunset, slowly becoming paler as the

light departed. He reclined in that idle, thoughtless state which

succeeds unusual effort, till the deepening shadow and the sinking fire,

and the appearance of a star, warned him that the night was really here.

Then he arose, threw on more fuel, and fetched his cloak, his chest, and

his boar spear from the canoe. The chest he covered with a corner of the

hide, wrapped himself in the cloak, bringing it well over his face on

account of the dew; then, drawing the lower corners of the hide over his

feet and limbs, he stretched himself at full length and fell asleep,

with the spear beside him.



There was the possibility of Bushmen, but not much probability. There

would be far more danger near the forest path, where they might expect a

traveller and watch to waylay him, but they could not tell beforehand

where he would rest that night. If any had seen the movements of his

canoe, if any lighted upon his bivouac by chance, his fate was certain.

He knew this, but trusted to the extreme improbability of Bushmen

frequenting a place where there was nothing to plunder. Besides, he had

no choice, as he could not reach the islands. If there was risk, it was

forgotten in the extremity of his weariness.