e right towards the point of land, to him invisible,
but in full view from the jetty.

"Oh, Babalatchi! oh!" he called out; "what is the matter there? can you
see?"

Babalatchi stopped and gazed intently at the crowd on the river bank, and
after a little while the astonished Almayer saw him leave the path,
gather up his sarong in one hand, and break into a trot through the grass
towards the muddy point. Almayer, now greatly interested, ran down the
steps of the verandah. The murmur of men's voices and the shrill cries
of women reached him quite distinctly now, and as soon as he turned the
corner of his house he could see the crowd on the low promontory swaying
and pushing round some object of interest. He could indistinctly hear
Babalatchi's voice, then the crowd opened before the aged statesman and
closed after him with an excited hum, ending in a loud shout.

As Almayer approached the throng a man ran out and rushed past him
towards the settlement, unheeding his call to stop and explain the cause
of this excitement. On the very outskirts of the crowd Almayer found
himself arrested by an unyielding mass of humanity, regardless of his
entreaties for a passage, insensible to his gentle pushes as he tried to
work his way through it towards the riverside.

In the midst of his gentle and slow progress he fancied suddenly he had
heard his wife's voice in the thickest of the throng. He could not
mistake very well Mrs. Almayer's high-pitched tones, yet the words were
too indistinct for him to understand their purport. He paused in his
endeavours to make a passage for himself, intending to get some
intelligence from those around him, when a long and piercing shriek rent
the air, silencing the murmurs of the crowd and the voices of his
informants. For a moment Almayer remained as if turned into stone with
astonishment and horror, for he was certain now that he had heard his
wife wailing for the dead. He remembered Nina's unusual absence, and
maddened by his apprehensions as to her safety, he pushed blindly and
violently forward, the crowd falling back with cries of surprise and pain
before his frantic advance.

On the point of land in a little clear space lay the body of the stranger
just hauled out from amongst the logs. On one side stood Babalatchi, his
chin resting on the head of his staff and his one eye gazing steadily at
the shapeless mass of broken limbs, torn flesh, and bloodstained rags. As
Almayer burst