Загублений світ
It was Dreadful in the Forest
Asonedescendedtheslopethewoodsbecamethinner,andbushes,withoccasionalhightrees,tooktheplaceoftheforest.Icouldmakegoodprogress,therefore,andIcouldseewithoutbeingseen.Ipassedclosetothepterodactylswamp,andasIdidso,withadry,crisp,leatheryrattleofwings,oneofthesegreatcreatures—itwastwentyfeetatleastfromtiptotip—roseupfromsomewherenearmeandsoaredintotheair.Asitpassedacrossthefaceofthemoonthelightshoneclearlythroughthemembranouswings,anditlookedlikeaflyingskeletonagainstthewhite,tropicalradiance.Icrouchedlowamongthebushes,forIknewfrompastexperiencethatwithasinglecrythecreaturecouldbringahundredofitsloathsomematesaboutmyears.ItwasnotuntilithadsettledagainthatIdaredtostealonwardsuponmyjourney.
Thenighthadbeenexceedinglystill,butasIadvancedIbecameconsciousofalow,rumblingsound,acontinuousmurmur,somewhereinfrontofme.ThisgrewlouderasIproceeded,untilatlastitwasclearlyquiteclosetome.WhenIstoodstillthesoundwasconstant,sothatitseemedtocomefromsomestationarycause.Itwaslikeaboilingkettleorthebubblingofsomegreatpot.SoonIcameuponthesourceofit,forinthecenterofasmallclearingIfoundalake—orapool,rather,foritwasnotlargerthanthebasinoftheTrafalgarSquarefountain—ofsomeblack,pitch-likestuff,thesurfaceofwhichroseandfellingreatblistersofburstinggas.
