y, and looked about languidly, reading the names on the
stones. Killed, killed, killed. Then he came upon a few who had died
naturally. Or was it natural to have died, at the age of thirty, out
here on the edge of the world? Yet it was most natural, after all. He
himself was nearly ready for the grave, ready because of pure boredom,
through pure inertia, quite ready to succumb to the devitalising
effect of this life. This hideous life on a desert island. This
hideous mockery of life, lived while he was still so young and so
vital, and which was reducing him, not slowly but with great pacing
strides, to an inertia to which he must soon succumb. Why didn't the
prisoners revolt now, he wondered? He would gladly accept such a way
out--gladly offer himself to their knives, or their clubs, or whatever
it was they had. Anything that would put an end to him, and land him
under a stone in this forsaken spot. Surely he was no more alive than
the dead under those stones. No more dead than the dead.

He passed out of the gate, swinging on a loose hinge, and in deep
meditation walked along the palm bordered road back of the settlement.
Soon the last bungalow was left behind, even though he walked slowly.
Then succeeded the paddy fields, poorly tilled and badly irrigated.
There were enough men on the island to have done it properly--only
what was the use? Who cared--whether they raised their own rice or
brought it from the mainland twice a month? It was not a matter to
bother about. Water buffaloes, grazing by the roadside, raised their
heavy heads and stared at him with unspeakable insolence. They were
for ploughing the rice fields, but who had the heart to oversee the
work? Better leave the men squatting in content by the roadside,
under the straggly banana trees, than urge them to work. It meant more
effort on the part of the officials and effort was so useless. All so
futile and so hopeless. He nodded in recognition of the salutes given
him by groups of paroled prisoners, chewing betel nut under the trees.
Let them be.

A bend in the road brought him to a halt. Just beyond, lying at full
length upon the parched grass, was the little girl he had seen that
morning. She lay on her back, with bare legs extended, asleep. Nearby,
squatting on his heels and lost in a meditative pipe, sat the Kling,
her body servant. The man rose to his feet respectfully as Mercier
passed, watching his mistress and watching Mercier with a sombre eye.
M