Загублений світ
It was Dreadful in the Forest
Butagainthefoolishpridefoughtagainstthatveryword.Icouldnot—mustnot—fail.Afterall,myriflewouldprobablyhavebeenasuselessasashot-gunagainstsuchdangersasImightmeet.IfIweretogobacktocamptochangemyweaponIcouldhardlyexpecttoenterandtoleaveagainwithoutbeingseen.Inthatcasetherewouldbeexplanations,andmyattemptwouldnolongerbeallmyown.Afteralittlehesitation,then,Iscrewedupmycourageandcontinueduponmyway,myuselessgunundermyarm.
Thedarknessoftheforesthadbeenalarming,butevenworsewasthewhite,stillfloodofmoonlightintheopengladeoftheiguanodons.Hidamongthebushes,Ilookedoutatit.Noneofthegreatbruteswereinsight.Perhapsthetragedywhichhadbefallenoneofthemhaddriventhemfromtheirfeeding-ground.Inthemisty,silverynightIcouldseenosignofanylivingthing.Takingcourage,therefore,Islippedrapidlyacrossit,andamongthejungleonthefarthersideIpickeduponceagainthebrookwhichwasmyguide.Itwasacheerycompanion,gurglingandchucklingasitran,likethedearoldtrout-streamintheWestCountrywhereIhavefishedatnightinmyboyhood.SolongasIfolloweditdownImustcometothelake,andsolongasIfolloweditbackImustcometothecamp.OftenIhadtolosesightofitonaccountofthetangledbrush-wood,butIwasalwayswithinearshotofitstinkleandsplash.
