The Adventures of Kathlyn

The current of the stream carried Kathlyn along at a fair pace; all she

had to do was to pole away from the numerous sand-bars and such

boulders as lifted their rugged heads above the water.

Round a bend the river widened and grew correspondingly sluggish. She

sounded with her pole. Something hideous beyond words arose--a fat,

aged, crafty crocodile. His corrugated snout was thrust quickly over

the edge of the raft. She struck at him wildly with the pole, and in a

fury he rushed the raft, upsetting Kathlyn.

The crocodile sank and for a moment lost sight of Kathlyn, who waded

frantically to the bank, up which she scrambled. She turned in time to

see the crocodile's tearful [Transcriber's note: fearful?] eyes staring

up at her from the water's edge. He presently slid back into his slimy

bed; a few yellow bubbles, and he was gone.

Kathlyn's heart became suddenly and unaccountably swollen with rage;

she became primordial; she wanted to hurt, maim, kill. Childishly she

stooped and picked up heavy stones which she hurled into the water.

The instinct to live flamed so strongly in her that the crust of

civilization fell away like mist before the sun, and for a long time

the pure savage (which lies dormant in us all) ruled her. She would

live, live, live; she would live to forget this oriental inferno

through which she was passing.

She ran toward the jungle, all unconscious of the stone she still held

in her hand. She lost all sense of time and compass; and so ran in a

half circle, coming out at the river again.

The Indian twilight was rising in the east when she found herself again

looking out upon the water, the stone still clutched tightly. She

gazed at the river, then at the stone, and again at the river. The

stone dropped with a thud at her feet. The savage in her had not

abated in the least; only her body was terribly worn and wearied and

the robe, muddied and torn, enveloped her like a veil of ice. Above

her the lonely yellow sky; below her the sickly river; all about her

silence which held a thousand menaces. Which way should she go? Where

could she possibly find shelter for the night?

The chill roused her finally and she swung her arms to renew the

circulation. Near by she saw a tree, in the crotch of which reposed a

platform, and upon this platform sat a shrine. A few withered flowers

hung about the gross neck of the idol, and withered flowers lay

scattered at the base of the tree. There was also a bundle of dry

rushes which some devotee had forgotten. At least, yonder platform

would afford safety through the night. So, with the last bit of

strength at her command, she gathered up the rushes and climbed to the

platform, arranging her bed behind the idol. She covered her shoulders

with the rushes and drew her knees up to her chin. She had forgotten

her father, Bruce, the happy days in a far country; she had but a

single thought, to sleep. What the want of sleep could not perform

exhaustion could; and presently she lay still.