About noon the weight on my back became unbearable and I resolved to sacrifice my precious cargo.  I threw away my camera, my unexposed plates, all utensils, and four of the boxes of gold dust.  This left me with one box of gold, a few boxes of exposed plates (which I eventually succeeded in carrying all the way back to New York), and fifty-six bullets, the automatic revolver, and the machete.  Last, but not least, I kept the hypodermic needle and a few more ampules.

We had walked scarcely a quarter of a mile when Jerome collapsed.  The poor fellow declared that he was beaten; it was no use to fight any more; he begged me to hurry the inevitable and send a bullet through his brain.  The prospect of another visitation of Death aroused me from my stupor.  I got him to a dry spot and found some dry leaves and branches with which I started a fire.  Jerome was beyond recognising me.  He lay by the fire, drawing long, wheezing breaths, and his face was horribly distorted, like that of a man in a violent fit.  He babbled incessantly to himself and occasionally stared at me and broke out into shrill, dreadful laughter, that made my flesh creep.

All this overwhelmed me and sapped the little energy I had left.  I threw myself on the ground some little distance from the fire, not caring if I ever rose again.

How long it was before a penetrating, weird cry aroused me from this stupor, I do not know, but when I raised my head I saw that the forest was growing dark and the fire burning low.  I saw too that Jerome was trying to get on his feet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his face crimson in colour.  He was on one knee, when the thread of life snapped, and he fell headlong into the fire.  I saw this as through a hazy veil and almost instantly my senses left me again.

I have no clear knowledge of what happened after this.  Throughout the rest of the night, my madness mercifully left me insensible to the full appreciation of the situation and my future prospects.  It was night again before I was able to arouse myself from my collapse.  The fire was out, the forest dark and still, except for the weird cry of the owl, the uncanny “Mother of the Moon.”  Poor Jerome lay quiet among the embers.  I did not have the courage, even if I had had the strength, to pull the body away, for there could be nothing left of his face by now.  I looked at him once more, shuddering, and because I could not walk, I crept on all fours through the brush, without any object in mind,—­just kept moving—­just crept on like a sick, worthless dog.

One definite incident of the night I remember quite distinctly.  It occurred during one of those moments when my senses returned for a while; when I could realise where I was and how I got there.  I was crawling through the thicket making small, miserable progress, my insensible face and hands torn and scratched by spines and thorns which I did not heed, when something bumped against my thigh; I clutched at it and my hand