"On top of the trees, not under!" cried Venning, who had seen that
the chief was working up to some point.

Muata spread out his fingers gravely. "Even so," he said. "There are
paths on the tree-tops known to the little people, and made by them.
Maybe they will let us travel also by them."

The others stared at the chief in amazement; and even Venning, in
spite of his intelligent anticipation, was too surprised to speak.

"There you can look upon the sky; there the wind blows fresh."

They looked up at the roof of branches, and then around into the
sombre aisles.

"And where are the little people?" Muata smiled. "Who knows? They
come like shadows, and like shadows they go. Even now they may be
near watching to see if we are friends or enemies."

"You would not tell us an idle tale, chief. Let us hear what is in
your mind."

"Stay here, my friends, while I seek the little men. Maybe, if I
find them, they will put us on our way; but if I fail, then my word
is that you go back to the river, lest the sickness of the woods
come upon you."

"We will wait; but I have seen no signs of the little men. They may
be far and difficult to find."

"They have watched us all the way," said Muata, calmly; "and it was
in my heart that they had fallen upon the young chiefs in the
night."

"Glad we didn't know," said Compton, thoughtfully.

Muata went off on his self-appointed task, and the white men felt,
as they saw him disappear, how impossible it was for them to cope
with the mystery of the forest. They were even more helpless than
castaways at sea without a compass; for at sea in the day there is
the clear sweep to the horizon miles away, while in the forest all
they could be certain of was a little circle with a radius of less
than fifty yards. Beyond that was the unknown, because unseen--a
vague blur of trees that might be sheltering wild animals or savage
men. And what made their helplessness the more felt, was the
knowledge that Muata knew so much, and that others--the mysterious
pigmies--knew still more. If there had been open glades, stretches
of greensward, rippling brooks, or even a hard clean carpet such as
is found under a pine forest, they would have been undismayed; but
this gloomy, shrouded fastness, without glimpse of sunbeams, was
becoming a nightmare.

Yet it would never do to become a prey to depression, for there is
no danger so fatal to the explorer as low spirits, the forerunner of
sickness.