An unfortunate delay, and a terrible visitor.  
Only those who have been forcibly held back when filled with the deepest anxiety to go forward, can form any thing like a conception of our state of mind during the few days that succeeded that on which Peterkin met with his accident.
 
We felt like chained hounds when the huntsmen pass by. We knew that every hour increased the distance between us and the slave-dealer’s party, who, unless we succeeded in passing them and reaching the villages first, would infallibly succeed in their villainous design. But Peterkin was unable to proceed without great risk, as whenever he attempted to walk steadily for any distance his head became giddy, and we were compelled to halt, so that a day or two’s rest was absolutely necessary. Poor Makarooroo was nearly beside himself with impatience; but to do him justice, he endeavoured to conceal the state of his feelings when in Peterkin’s presence.
 
During this period of forced inaction, although of course I had nothing to do, I found it impossible to apply my mind closely to the study of any of the strange and beautiful objects by which I was surrounded. Anxiety banished from me almost entirely the love of study, as well as the power of observation. Nevertheless, one or two things that I saw were so curious that they could not but make a deep impression on my memory.
 
I discovered a spider of a very remarkable kind, which was such an ingenious creature as to be capable of making a door to the entrance of its house. I came upon the animal one day while taking a stroll a short distance from our camp. It was as large as a shilling, reddish in colour, and from the fierce, rapid way in which it ran about hither and thither as if in search of prey, it had an exceedingly horrible and voracious aspect. The hole of this creature is visible only when its owner is absent from home. It is quite evident either that there are no thieves among the lower animals there, or that there is nothing in the hole to steal, for when he goes out he leaves the door open behind him. When he returns he shuts the door, and the hole becomes invisible, in consequence of the door being coated with earth on the outside. Its inside is lined with a pure white silky substance, which at once attracted my attention as I passed. On trying to pick up the door, I found that it was attached by a hinge to the hole, and on being shut it fitted exactly.
 
Perhaps the most singular discovery I made was a tree, the stem of which had been so completely surrounded by spiders’ webs that it could not be seen, and I had to cut through the network with my knife in order to get at the tree. The lines of those webs were as thick as coarse threads, and pretty strong, as I had reason to know; for when walking back to camp the same evening, meditating deeply on our unfortunate detention, I ran my head into the middle of a spider’s web, and was completely enveloped in it, so much so that it was with considerable difficulty I succeeded in clearing it away. I was as regularly netted as if a gauze veil had been thrown over me.
 
On our third morning after the accident we set forth again, and continued our journey by forced marches as Peterkin could bear it. Although the two past days and nights had been absolutely lost, and could not now be recalled, yet the moment we set out and left our camp behind us, the load of anxiety was at once lifted off our minds, and we hurried forward with an elasticity of step and spirit that was quite delightful. We felt like prisoners set free, and kept up a continual flow of conversation, sometimes in reference to the scenery and objects around us, at other times in regard to our future plans or our past experiences.
 
“It seems to me,” said Jack, breaking silence at the end of a long pause which had succeeded an animated discussion as to whether it were better to spend one’s life in the civilised world or among the wilds of Africa, in which discussion Peterkin, who advocated the wild life, was utterly, though not admittedly, beaten—“it seems to me that, notwithstanding the short time we stayed in the gorilla country, we have been pretty successful. Haven’t we bagged thirty-three altogether?”
 
“Thirty-six, if you count the babies in arms,” responded Peterkin.
 
“Of course we are entitled to count these.”
 
“I think you are both out in your reckoning,” said I, drawing out my note-book; “the last baby that I shot was our thirty-seventh.”
 
“What!” cried Peterkin, “the one with the desperately black face and the horrible squint, that nearly tore all the hair out of Jack’s head before he managed to strangle him? That wasn’t a baby; it was a big boy, and I have no doubt a big rascal besides.”
 
“That may be so,” I rejoined; “but whatever he was, I have him down as number thirty-seven in my list.”
 
“Pity we didn’t make up the forty,” observed Jack.
 
“Ah! yes indeed,” said Peterkin. “But let me see: could we not manage to make it up to that yet?”
 
“Impossible,” said I. “We are far away from the gorilla land now, I know; for, in addition to the fact that we have seen no traces of gorillas for a long time, we have, within the last few days, seen several lions, which, you are well aware, do not exist in the gorilla country.”
 
“True; but you mistake me,” rejoined Peterkin. “I do not mean to make up the number to forty by killing three more, but by proving, almost to demonstration, that we have already been the death of that number, in addition to those noted down.”
 
“You’ll find that rather difficult,” said Jack, laughing.
 
“Not at all,” cried Peterkin. “Let me think a minute. You remember that enormously big, hairy fellow, that looked so like an ugly old man that Ralph refused point-blank to fire at him, whereupon you fired at him point-blank and wounded him in the shoulder as he was running away?”
 
“We treated several big fellows in that way,” replied Jack; “which of them do you allude to?—the one that roared so loud and terrified you so much that you nearly ran away?”
 
“No, no; you know well enough which one I mean. The one that ran along the edge of the stagnant pool into which you tumbled as we were coming back.”
 
“Oh yes! I remember,” said Jack, laughing.
 
“Well, that fellow flew into such a horrible rage when he was wounded,” continued Peterkin, “that I am perfectly certain he went straight home and murdered his wife in a passion; which brings up the number to thirty-eight. Then there was that old woman-gorilla that I brought down when we were descending yon hill that was covered with such splendid vines. You remember? Well, I’m quite certain that the young man-gorilla beside her, who ran off and escaped, was her son, and that he went home straightway and died of grief. That makes thirty-nine. Then—”
 
“Oh, do be quiet, Peterkin, please,” said I, with a shudder. “You put things in such a fearfully dark and murderous light that I feel quite as if I were a murderer. I feel quite uneasy, I assure you; and if it were not that we have killed all these creatures in the cause of science, I should be perfectly miserable.”
 
“In the cause of science!” repeated Peterkin; “humph! I suspect that a good deal of wickedness is perpetrated under the wing of science.”
 
“Come, come,” said Jack; “don’t you begin to grow sarcastic, Master Peterkin. I abominate sarcasm, and cannot tolerate sarcastic people. If you adopt that style, I shall revert to my natural habits as a gorilla, and tear you in pieces.”
 
“There you exhibit your unnatural ignorance of your own natural habits,” retorted Peterkin; “for you ough............