he Ego which
constituted his normal individuality!

Rosendo advised him to retire for the midday _siesta_. Through the
seemingly interminable afternoon he lay upon his hard bed with his
brain afire, while the events of his warped life moved before him in
spectral review. The week which had passed since he left Cartagena
seemed an age. When he might hope to receive word from the outside
world, he could not imagine. His isolation was now complete. Even
should letters succeed in reaching Simiti for him, they must first
pass through the hands of the Alcalde.

And what did the Alcalde know of him? And then, again, what did it
matter? He must not lose sight of the fact that his interest in the
outside world--nay, his interest in all things had ceased. This was
the end. He had yielded, after years of struggle, to pride, fear,
doubt. He had bowed before his morbid sense of honor--a perverted
sense, he now admitted, but still one which bound him in fetters of
steel. His life had been one of grossest inconsistency. He was utterly
out of tune with the universe. His incessant clash with the world of
people and events had sounded nothing but agonizing discord. And his
confusion of thought had become such that, were he asked why he was in
Simiti, he could scarcely have told. At length he dropped into a
feverish sleep.

The day drew to a close, and the flaming sun rested for a brief moment
on the lofty tip of Tolima. Jose awoke, dripping with perspiration,
his steaming blood rushing wildly through its throbbing channels.
Blindly he rose from his rough bed and stumbled out of the stifling
chamber. The living room was deserted. Who might be in the kitchen, he
did not stop to see. Dazed by the garish light and fierce heat, he
rushed from the house and over the burning shales toward the lake.

What he intended to do, he knew not. His weltering thought held but a
single concept--water! The lake would cool his burning skin--he would
wade out into it until it rose to his cracking lips--he would lie down
in it, till it quenched the fire in his head--he would sleep in it--he
would never leave it--it was cool--perhaps cold! What did the word
mean? Was there aught in the world but fire--flames--fierce,
withering, smothering, consuming heat? He thought the shales crackled
as they melted beneath him! He thought his feet sank to the ankles in
molten lava, and were so heavy he scarce could drag them! He thought
the blazing sun shot out great to