Ogo, with the little rat-faced stranger in his arms, and a large lump of boar’s flesh slung across his back, stamped through the dark forest, this way, that way, wherever the stranger directed. He had perforce to stamp, his legs being weak with much travelling, and his load heavy. The noise made by his progress inspired him with fear, and with a kind of guilt, for it did violence both to his instinct and to his hunter’s habit. It seemed to him that the whole world of men must now be aware of his movements; from every side, in his fancy, suspicious eyes watched him. But all fears, though active, were subdued by his master-passion: he must have water. The taste of meat had sharpened his thirst; his throat was dry and burning; his head began sagging forward, with mouth open and hanging tongue. Sometimes he tottered for a step or two, and nearly fell; and then the man in his arms would gasp and clutch at him desperately. Ogo said nothing. He went on and on. Great bats zigzagged around him. He trod on darkness, a darkness that crackled or swished or squelched, a lurching billowy darkness, now up, now down. Bushes loomed suddenly in his path; roots clutched his feet; leafy boughs struck him with cold hands; and once a gigantic bird rose up screaming before him and beat its way into the sky with a sound like creaking timber. An evil spirit, a dire omen; but Ogo still went on. His thirst pressed forward, dragging the tired feet after it, the suffering mind, the burdened body. The pace became slower, and between one footfall and the next the sibilant quietude of the forest sang in his ears, and he could hear, with his mind’s eye could see, against this background of listening silence, the stealthy rustle of small things escaping his menace. Moonlight, a pale pervasive ghost, came trickling in, creating a world of misty sculpture and clear-cut shadows. The stranger, at first and for a long while silent, now chattered without ceasing in his small rusty voice. It was this way, this way. There was water, good water, and they would soon reach it and drink of it and feast together. Ogo was good. They were friends and would share the meat and drink. Ogo was good and Bikkoo was good. Very good both, and good friends. So ran the stranger’s talk: he was fast losing blood, and the grip of his fingers had weakened. At every second step Ogo felt a drop of liquid warmth spatter his own naked thigh and begin trickling down him. But he thought still of nothing but water. He did not waste himself in wondering how long the agony must continue. He was beyond hope and beyond despair. His mind was small and dim. Thirst filled him and he went dumbly on.