"Unless we can get a boat, here we must stay," I remarked to Hans, who
was seated with me behind a screen of rushes at the water's edge.
He made no answer, and as I thought, in a sort of subconscious way, I
engaged myself in watching a certain tragedy of the insect world.
Between two stout reeds a forest spider of the very largest sort had
spun a web as big as a lady's open parasol. There in the midst of this
web of which the bottom strands almost touched the water, sat the
spider waiting for its prey, as the crocodiles were waiting on the
banks, as the great ape had waited for the Kalubis, as Death waits for
Life, as the Motombo was waiting for God knows what.
It rather resembled the Motombo in his cave, did that huge, black
spider with just a little patch of white upon its head, or so I
thought fancifully enough. Then came the tragedy. A great, white moth
of the Hawk species began to dart to and fro between the reeds, and
presently struck the web on its lower side some three inches above the
water.
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