After about an hour we come to a swampy
plain, covered with tall reed-grass. Grassy plains are an unusual
sight in Santo; the wide expanse of yellowish green is surrounded
by dark walls of she-oak, in the branches of which hang thousands
of flying-foxes. At a dirty pond we fill our kettles with greenish
water, for our night camp will be on the mountain slope ahead of us,
far from any spring. Even the moli has to carry a load of water, as I
can hardly ask the boys to take any more. He feels rather humiliated,
as a moli usually carries nothing but a gun, but he is good enough to
see the necessity of the case, and condescends to carry a small kettle.

Straight ahead are the high coral plateaux across which our road
lies. While we tackle the ascent, the sky has become overcast, the
gay aspect of the landscape has changed to sad loneliness and a heavy
shower soaks us to the skin. The walk through the jungle is trying,
and even the moli loses the way now and again. Towards nightfall
we enter a high forest with but little underbrush, and work our way
slowly up a steep and slippery slope to an overhanging coral rock,
where we decide to camp. We have lost our way, but as night is closing
in fast, we cannot venture any farther.

The loads are thrown to the ground in disorder, and the boys drop
down comfortably; strong language on my part is needed before they
make up their minds to pile up the luggage, collect wood and begin
to cook. Meanwhile my own servant has prepared my bed and dried my
clothes. Soon it is quite dark, the boys gather round the fires, and do
not dare to go into the yawning darkness any more, for fear of ghosts.

The rain has ceased, and the soft damp night air hangs in the
trees. The firelight is absorbed by the darkness, and only the nearest
surroundings shine in its red glare; the boys are stretched out in
queer attitudes round the fire on the hard rocks. Soon I turn out the
lamp and lie listening to the night, where vague life and movement
creeps through the trunks. Sometimes a breath of wind shivers through
the trees, shaking heavy drops from the leaves. A wild pig grunts,
moths and insects circle round the fires, and thousands of mosquitoes
hum about my net and sing me to sleep. Once in a while I am roused
by the breaking of a rotten tree, or a mournful cry from one of the
dreaming boys; or one of them wakes up, stirs the fire, turns over and
snores on. Long before daybreak a glorious concert of birds