that queer Englishwoman's train . . . going back alone."
They were entering the borders of the real forest, where the moist earth was covered by a tangle of vines and a pattern of light and dark. Phillip asked, "Why . . . alone?"
"She died three days ago . . . of the fever. Murchison would have sent her away if she hadn't been sick. She abused missionaries. She said we were spoiling her country."
"Yes . . . she thought it belonged to her."
The shadows grew thicker and thicker all about them. They walked in silence, save for the occasional chatter of a monkey.
"It was the third time she'd been back," said Swanson.
"She must have been quite old."
"About sixty, maybe. She told Murchison to stop praying over her. 'Stop slobbering over me,' is what she said."
"Yes . . . she would say that. Where did you bury her?"
"Down the lake . . . by the lagoon."
By the lagoon . . . the spot where Philip had come upon the black women carrying water from the lake. It was a beautiful spot, a quiet place to rest.
"She asked to be buried there. She liked the place."
They walked in silence until suddenly through the trees and the tangle of vines the glittering lake became visible, and a moment later the clearing on the low hill where Philip had once fought back the ravenous jungle. There was no trace of the old mission that had been burned; there were two new huts, larger than
