DOWN THE DARK RIVER.

Down the Dark River, the mystic Isis, so Leonora had decided, we sped:  Ustani plying the long pole of the dhow, or native flat-bottomed boat, while we took it in turns to keep him up to his work by flicking him with a tandem-whip.

The moon went slowly down, and it occurred to Leonora to remark that we were ‘going down’ too, an unusual thing so early in term.  Like some sweet bride into her chamber the moon departed, and the quivering footsteps of the Don shook the planets from their places, to the consternation of the Savilian Professor of Astronomy, who, as in duty bound, was contemplating these revolutionary performances from the observatory in the Parks.  A number of moral ideas occurred to Leonora and myself, but out of regard for Ustani’s feelings we denied them expression.  I began, indeed, to utter a few appropriate sentiments, but the poor Boshman exclaimed, ’You floggee, floggee, Missy, or preachee, preachee, but no both floggee and preachee ­’ in a tone that would have disarmed a Bampton lecturer.

      Every Oxford man knows what I mean. ­ED.

Down we drifted, ever downwards, obedient to the inscrutable laws of the equilibrium of fluids.  Now we swept past the White Willow, now through the cruel crawling waters of the Gut, now threaded the calamitous gorge of Iffley, and then shot the perilous cataract of Sandford.

At this moment, just when the dhow was yet quivering with the strain, I noticed an expression of abject fear on the face of Ustani.  His dark countenance was positively blanched with horror, and his teeth chattered.

‘Silence, chatterbox!’ I cried, querulously perhaps, when he laid down his pole and seated himself in an attitude of despair.

‘What’s the matter, old boy?’ asked Leonora, and the reply came in faltering accents ­

’The Ama Barghis!’

      Don’t keep hammer hammering away at Greek!  This is a boy’s
      book, not a holiday task, this is! ­PUBLISHER.

We glanced in terror down the river’s edge.

There, on the path trodden by so many millions of feet that now are silent, there were the burly forms of five or six splendid savages.

      Couldn’t help just throwing it in. ­ED.

The character of their language ­which was borne to us on the pure breeze of morning ­their costume, their floating house, in which these scourges of the water highway commonly reside ­everything combined to demonstrate that they belonged to the Barghiz, the most powerful and most dreaded of the native populations.

‘Me umslopogey,’ whispered Ustani in his native language, meaning that he would retreat.

‘Eyes in the boat,’ cried Leonora, in her clear, commanding tones; ‘paddle on all!’

The Boshman, cowed by her aspect, and the mere slave of discipline (he had pulled in the St. Catherine’s second torpid), obeyed her command, and presently we were abreast of the Barghiz.

‘Hi, Miss,’ cried the Barghi chief, a man of colossal stature, ’Can’t yer look where yer a shovin’ to?’

Though his words were unintelligible, his tone was insulting.

Leonora rose to her feet, and to the occasion.

By virtue of her rare acquaintance with savage customs, she was able to taunt the Barghiz with the horrors of their tribal mystery, to divulge which is Death!

She openly insulted the secret orgies of the tribe.

She denounced the Dog-Feast!

‘WHO ATE THE PUPPY PIE UNDER MARLOWE BRIDGE?’ shrilled Leonora in her proud sweet young voice.

In a moment a shower of stones struck the dhow, and spurred the water into storm.  Frank Muller, the Barghi chief, distinguished himself by the fury of his imprecations and the accuracy of his aim.  A smothered groan told me that Ustani had been hit in the mouth.

Whid, whad, crash went the stones, while Leonora plied the pole with desperate energy, and I erected the patent reversible umbrellas with which we were provided to catch any breath of favourable wind.

The fierce rapidity of the stream finally carried us out of the reach of the infuriated Barghiz (who, moreover, were providentially slain by lightning ­a common enough occurrence in that favoured climate, where nobody thinks anything of it), and we rested, weary and wounded, in a sheltered backwater.

      No; all right.  It is a tremendous country for storms; can’t
      use them too often; adds to the sense of reality. ­ED.

‘The dhow’s looking rather dowdy,’ said Leonora, glancing at the shattered craft.

‘If doughty deeds my lady please,’ said I, catching her light tone, ‘why, she must take the consequences.  But, Leonora,’ I added, shuddering, ‘I’m sure my feet are damp.’

If there is one thing I dread it is damp feet.

‘No wonder,’ said Leonora, calmly.  ‘The dhow has sprung a leek.’

I searched the dhow everywhere, but could find no trace of the vegetable.

Meanwhile the water had risen above the capstan, and Ustani, shivering audibly, had perched himself on the bowsprit.

‘Now or never,’ said Leonora, ‘is the moment for our life-belts.’

We hurriedly put on our life-belts, regretting the absence of an experienced maid.

‘I’ll be Mrs. Lecks, and you’ll be Mrs. Aleshine!’ laughed Leonora, as the dhow, shuddering in all her timbers, collapsed.

‘Ego et Lecks mea!’ cried I, not to seem deficient in opportune gaiety of allusion, and we were in the water.  We advanced briskly down stream, Ustani propelling himself with the pole of the dhow.

Ever anxious about Ustani’s University education (interrupted by this expedition), Leonora kept ‘coaching’ him in the usual way.

‘Bow, you’re feathering under water,’ she exclaimed, when the unfortunate Ustani disappeared in a lasher, where we, thanks to our life-belts, floated gaily enough.

Here we paused to catch a few of the perch and gudgeons, which Leonora had attracted by carefully wearing white stockings.

‘Nothing like white stockings for perch,’ she said.

As there were not perch enough to go round, Ustani was told to content himself with the pole, a synonym, if not an equivalent.

Laying our trencher-caps on the water, we used them, as of old, for trenchers, and made an excellent meal.