. .
remember. . . ."

Willems pulled himself together for a struggle. He dared not go unarmed.
He made a long stride, and saw her raise the revolver. He noticed that
she had not cocked it, and said to himself that, even if she did fire,
she would surely miss. Go too high; it was a stiff trigger. He made a
step nearer--saw the long barrel moving unsteadily at the end of her
extended arm. He thought: This is my time . . . He bent his knees
slightly, throwing his body forward, and took off with a long bound for
a tearing rush.

He saw a burst of red flame before his eyes, and was deafened by a
report that seemed to him louder than a clap of thunder. Something
stopped him short, and he stood aspiring in his nostrils the acrid smell
of the blue smoke that drifted from before his eyes like an immense
cloud. . . . Missed, by Heaven! . . . Thought so! . . . And he saw her
very far off, throwing her arms up, while the revolver, very small, lay
on the ground between them. . . . Missed! . . . He would go and pick it
up now. Never before did he understand, as in that second, the joy,
the triumphant delight of sunshine and of life. His mouth was full of
something salt and warm. He tried to cough; spat out. . . . Who
shrieks: In the name of God, he dies!--he dies!--Who dies?--Must pick
up--Night!--What? . . . Night already. . . .

* * * * * *

Many years afterwards Almayer was telling the story of the great
revolution in Sambir to a chance visitor from Europe. He was a
Roumanian, half naturalist, half orchid-hunter for commercial purposes,
who used to declare to everybody, in the first five minutes of
acquaintance, his intention of writing a scientific book about tropical
countries. On his way to the interior he had quartered himself upon
Almayer. He was a man of some education, but he drank his gin neat, or
only, at most, would squeeze the juice of half a small lime into the
raw spirit. He said it was good for his health, and, with that medicine
before him, he would describe to the surprised Almayer the wonders of
European capitals; while Almayer, in exchange, bored him by expounding,
with gusto, his unfavourable opinions of Sambir's social and political
life. They talked far into the night, across the deal table on the
verandah, while, between them, clear-winged, small, and flabby insects,
dissatisfied with moonlight, streamed in and perished in thousands round
the smoky light of the evil-smelling lamp.

Almayer, his face