[Illustration: THE LITTLE ARMY COULD ONLY MARCH IN SINGLE FILE.]
Under this discomfort, a predatory column was marching on from one
captured village to another, whose possible store of ivory had so far
not been gleaned. The road was the ordinary African bush-path, intensely
winding and only foot-sole wide; the little army, with Kettle at its
head, could only march in single file, and Clay, who brought up the
straggling rear, sweated and panted quite half a mile behind his leader.
Every one knew the tornado was approaching, and both the worn and
haggard white men and the sweating, malodorous blacks hoped for it with
equal intensity. For be it known that the tropical tornado passes
through the stale baked air at intervals, like some gigantic sieve,
dredging out its surplus heat and impurities. The which is a necessity
of Nature; else even the black man could not endure in those regions.
And in due time, though it lingered most cruelly in its approach, the
tornado burst upon them, coming with an insane volley of rain and wind
and sound, that filled the forests with crashings, and sent the parched
earth flying in vicious mud-spirts. In a Northern country such a furious
outburst would have filled people with alarm; but here, in the tropic
wilderness, custom had robbed the tornado of its dignity; and no one was
awed.
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