CHAPTER XII.
THE MAN-EATERS On the fifth day they turned from the mighty Congo into a tributary that threaded the dark mysterious forest, whose depths had never been trodden yet by white men, whose dark retreats and sombre avenues, into which no ray of sunlight struggled, were the haunt of the gorilla, of pigmies, and of cannibals, dreaded most of all.
After the broad Congo this was a mere thread, no more than a few hundred yards across, a gloomy opening in the gloomy woods that marched right down to its shores; that sent out huge branches in a leafy roof over the water near the banks, making dark retreats, in which lurked watchful crocodiles.

The stir and bustle of the great river found no echo in this silent byway.

Nowhere was there any trace of man.

The forest seemed impenetrable, beyond all his puny efforts to make a footing.
There seemed no room enough for a man to set his foot, so close was the foliage from the ground to the topmost bough of the tallest tree.

Mile after mile they went on, without a sign of life, then from the shore an arrow whistled, pierced the awning, and rang on the metal deck.
Compton put the wheel over, and the Okapi slid away from that dangerous screen.