THERE it was! The abrupt liberation of sound! As he timed it with his watch, Bassett likened it to the trump of an archangel.Walls of cities, he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and compelling a summons.For the thousandth time vainly he tried to analyse the tone- quality of that enormous peal that dominated the land far into the strong- holds of the surrounding tribes.The mountain gorge which was its source rang to the rising tide of it until it brimmed over and flooded earth and sky and air.With the wantonness of a sick man's fancy, he likened it to the mighty cry of some Titan of the Elder World vexed with misery or wrath.Higher and higher it arose, challenging and demanding in such profounds of volume that it seemed intended for ears beyond the narrow confines of the solar system.There was in it, too, the clamour of protest in that there were no ears to hear and comprehend its utterance.
- Such the sick man's fancy.Still he strove to analyse the sound.Sonorous as thunder was it, mellow as a golden bell, thin and sweet as a thrummed taut cord of silver - no; it was none of these, nor a blend of these.There were no words nor semblances in his vocabulary and experience with which to describe the totality of that sound.
Time passed.Minutes merged into quarters of hours, and quarters of hours into half-hours, and still the sound persisted, ever changing from its initial vocal impulse yet never receiving fresh impulse - fading, dimming, dying as enormously as it had sprung into being.It became a confusion of troubled mutterings and babblings and colossal whisperings.Slowly it withdrew, sob by sob, into whatever great bosom had birthed it, until it whimpered deadly whispers of wrath and as equally seductive whispers of delight, striving still to be heard, to convey some cosmic secret, some understanding of infinite import and value.It dwindled to a ghost of sound that had lost its menace and promise, and became a thing that pulsed on in the sick man's consciousness for minutes after it had ceased.When he could hear it no longer, Bassett glanced at his watch.An hour had elapsed ere that archangel's trump had subsided into tonal nothingness.
Was this, then, HIS dark tower? - Bassett pondered, remembering his Browning and gazing at his skeleton-like and fever-wasted hands.And the fancy made him smile - of Childe Roland bearing a slug-horn to his lips with an arm as feeble as his was.Was it months, or years, he asked himself, since he first heard that mysterious call on the beach at Ringmanu? To save himself he could not tell.The long sickness had been most long.In conscious count of time he knew of months, many of them; but he had no way of estimating the long intervals of delirium and stupor.And how fared Captain Bateman of the blackbirder NARI? he wondered; and had Captain Bateman's drunken mate died of delirium tremens yet?
From which vain speculations, Bassett turned idly to review all that had occurred since that day on the beach of Ringmanu when he first heard the sound and plunged into the jungle after it.Sagawa had protested.He could see him yet, his queer little monkeyish face eloquent with fear, his back burdened with specimen cases, in his hands Bassett's butterfly net and naturalist's shot-gun, as he quavered, in Beche-de-mer English: "Me fella too much fright along bush.Bad fella boy, too much stop'm along bush."Bassett smiled sadly at the recollection.The little New Hanover boy had been frightened, but had proved faithful, following him without hesitancy into the bush in the quest after the source of the wonderful sound.No fire-hollowed tree-trunk, that, throbbing war through the jungle depths, had been Bassett's conclusion.Erroneous had been his next conclusion, namely, that the source or cause could not be more distant than an hour's walk, and that he would easily be back by mid-afternoon to be picked up by the NARI'S whale-boat.
"That big fella noise no good, all the same devil-devil," Sagawa had adjudged.And Sagawa had been right.Had he not had his head hacked off within the day? Bassett shuddered.Without doubt Sagawa had been eaten as well by the "bad fella boys too much" that stopped along the bush.He could see him, as he had last seen him, stripped of the shot-gun and all the naturalist's gear of his master, lying on the narrow trail where he had been decapitated barely the moment before.Yes, within a minute the thing had happened.Within a minute, looking back, Bassett had seenhim trudging patiently along under his burdens.Then Bassett's own trouble had come upon him.He looked at the cruelly healed stumps of the first and second fingers of his left hand, then rubbed them softly into the indentation in the back of his skull.Quick as had been the flash of the long handled tomahawk, he had been quick enough to duck away his head and partially to deflect the stroke with his up-flung hand.Two fingers and a hasty scalp-wound had been the price he paid for his life.With one barrel of his ten- gauge shot-gun he had blown the life out of the bushman who had so nearly got him; with the other barrel he had peppered the bushmen bending over Sagawa, and had the pleasure of knowing that the major portion of the charge had gone into the one who leaped away with Sagawa's head.Everything had occurred in a flash.Only himself, the slain bushman, and what remained of Sagawa, were in the narrow, wild-pig run of a path.From the dark jungle on either side came no rustle of movement or sound of life.And he had suffered distinct and dreadful shock.For the first time in his life he had killed a human being, and he knew nausea as he contemplated the mess of his handiwork.
