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Slaves of the Dust

_By Sophie Wenzel Ellis_

Fate's retribution was adequate. There emerged a rat with a man's
head and face.

_It's a poor science that would hide from us the great, deep,
sacred infinitude of Nescience, whither we can never penetrate, on
which all science swims as mere superficial film._

--_Carlyle_.

[Illustration: _Sir Basil showed his teeth in his ugly smile. "A creator
is never merciful."_]

The two _bataloes_ turned from the open waters of the lower Tapajos
River into the _igarape_, the lily-smothered shallows that often mark an
Indian settlement in the jungles of Brazil. One of the two half-breed
rubber-gatherers suddenly stopped his _bataloe_ by thrusting a paddle
against a giant clump of lilies. In a corruption of the Tupi dialect, he
called over to the white man occupying the other frail craft.

"We dare go no farther, master. The country of the Ungapuks is
bewitched. It is too dangerous."

Fearfully he stared over his shoulder toward a spot in the slimy water
where a dim bulk moved, which was only an alligator hunting for his
breakfast.

Hale Oakham, as long and lanky and level-eyed as Charles Lindbergh, ran
despairing fingers through his damp hair and groaned.

"But how can I find this jungle village without a guide?"

The _caboclo_ shrugged. "The