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Updated: May 21, 2025
I could not have been making to exceed a hundred yards an hour when, at a bend, I was confronted by a series of rapids through which the river foamed and boiled at a terrific rate. My heart sank within me. The sorapus nutshell had proved a false prophet, and, after all, my intuition had been correct it was the left-hand channel that I should have followed. Had I been a woman I should have wept.
I turned as I had been bid, expecting such a treat as only the revealment of divine glory to mortal eyes might produce. What I saw was a solid phalanx of armed men between myself and a dais supporting a great bench of carved sorapus wood. On this bench, or throne, squatted a female black. She was evidently very old. Not a hair remained upon her wrinkled skull.
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